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’ DICKENS . 

TOON AND CARICATURE 

WILLIAM C nv WILKINS 

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CHARLES DICKENS 
(Circa 1855) 

From a daguerreotype by Mayall 




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DICKENS 

IN 

CARTOON AND CARICATURE 

COMPILED BY 

WILLIAM GLYDE WILKINS 

ii 

EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION BY 

B. W. MATZ 

EDITOR OF THE DICKENSIAN 



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THE BIBLIOPHILE SOCIETY 

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DICKENS 

IN 

CARTOON AND CARICATURE 









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INTRODUCTION 
By B. W. Matz 

The task of preparing this volume for the 
press has been at times a melancholy one, 
for it has often reminded me of the genial 
and generous good-nature of my friend who 
compiled it. 

In my capacity as editor of The Dickens¬ 
ian it is my pleasure and privilege to meet 
or correspond with collectors of Dickensiana 
and other enthusiasts of the great novelist 
from all parts of the world, either in search 
of knowledge or in imparting it on all 
phases of the fascinating subject of Dickens 
lore. Among these, Mr. Wilkins will always 
be remembered. He was not one of those 
who, having become possessed of a unique 
treasure, hugged it to himself in selfish de¬ 
light. He wanted always to share the 
pleasure with others. In this way my little 
store of Dickensiana, like that of many 
another, became enriched and my knowl- 

[9] 


edge of the subject — upon which I have 
spent many years — manifestly increased. 

Mr. Wilkins was a keen student and lover 
of Dickens, as well as a conscientious col¬ 
lector — not always the same thing, by the 
way — and was as well known in the 
Dickens circfe in London — the members 
of which ride’ their hobby-horse pretty se¬ 
verely — as he was in his own country. We 
all shared with him our knowledge and when 
possible our treasures too, and the obliga¬ 
tion was always fully reciprocated by him. 

He wrote and compiled many books and 
booklets on his favorite theme, chiefly de¬ 
voted to the American side of the subject, 
and printed privately several valuable items 
of Dickensiana. His best knowi}, and for 
some reasons the most valuable, contri¬ 
bution to the subject was entitled Charles 
Dickens in America , wherein he brought 
together almost everything that need be 
known of the novelist’s two visits to that 
country, with full reports of the speeches 
made about Dickens, and of the speeches 
the novelist made himself. 

We all knew Mr. Wilkins was busily en¬ 
gaged in compiling the present volume, and 
those of us who corresponded with him lent 
[ 10 ] 


him our aid when required. This is true 
particularly of Mr. William Miller, who 
assisted him in every possible way to com¬ 
plete his material, and I am sure it would 
have been Mr. Wilkins’s wish that public 
acknowledgment be made to Mr. Miller 
for his ready co-operation. 

Shortly before his death Mr. Wilkins 
informed us that the volume was to be 
printed, and that the MS. and other ma¬ 
terial were already in the hands of The 
Bibliophile Society. On hearing later that 
he had passed away speculation became 
rife as to whether in the circumstances the 
publication plans would be affected. 

When, therefore, I was asked by The 
Bibliophile Society if I would sponsor the 
MS. material and prepare it for the press, 
I readily agreed to do so, feeling as I did 
that it is a volume which will be greatly 
prized by all interested in the subject; and 
I am pleased to be associated in this small 
way with its publication. My only regret 
is that it will not be available to others than 
the fortunate members of the Society which 
issues it. 

Had Mr. Wilkins lived to complete his 
task he would no doubt have supplied the 

[n] 


various annotations and additions to the 
text that I have endeavored to do. Al¬ 
though it would have been possible to ex¬ 
tend the scope of Mr. Wilkins’s book, I 
have deemed it wise to leave it practically 
as he left it. In some instances, however, 
in order that the significance of the cartoon 
or caricature may be more easily appreci¬ 
ated, I have ventured to add explanatory 
paragraphs; whilst in several instances, 
where I have thought it necessary, I have 
supplied footnotes to the text, and occa¬ 
sionally dates where they were missing. I 
have also been able to supply letterpress to 
certain pictures, missing from the MS. 

In arranging the material I have adopted 
the simple plan of chronology, taking the 
date of publication, or approximate date 
when uncertain, for guidance. 

Certain plates appeared separately, and 
so no text accompanied them. These are 
self-explanatory, being for the most part 
fancy pictures of the novelist round whose 
portrait are grouped scenes or characters 
from his books, and were published usually 
as cabinet photographs during the year of 
his death. But where it has been possible 
to supply data I have done so. 

[ 12 ] 


There are also one or two cases where the 
source of the cartoon is not stated. These, 
curiously enough, apply to pictures from 
American papers, the names of which Mr. 
Wilkins no doubt left no stone unturned to 
discover, but evidently failed. Perhaps the 
publication of this volume will bring to 
light the missing information. 




[133 






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FOREWORD 

By William Glyde Wilkins 

Probably no author ever lived of whom 
more portraits have been made, both during 
his lifetime and since his death, than 
Charles Dickens. 

There has perhaps never been an author 
whose features, from early youth to the 
time of his death, are so familiar to the 
reading public as those of this great author 
of the Victorian era. The writer has in his 
collection over four hundred 1 portraits of 
Dickens, including steel engravings, etch¬ 
ings, lithographs, wood engravings and 
photographs. Of the latter there are one 
hundred and twenty in a variety of poses, 
— half lengths, three-quarter lengths and 
full length; some in sitting position and 
some standing; in some he is reading, some 
writing, some putting on his gloves, some 
with hat in hand, with cane, and others 
with both hat and cane. During the years 
in which he was giving his public readings 

1 The portraits in^the National Dickens Library in the 
Guildhall, London, number only 247. — W. G. W. 

[15] 


Dickens was as much photographed as any 
prima donna or stage beauty of the present 
day. 

As is the case with most famous men, he 
did not escape the pencil of the caricaturist 
or cartoonist. The caricatures, however, 
were not of a particularly ill-natured charac¬ 
ter, but dealt frequently with his love of 
jewelry and what today would be called 
somewhat flashy attire. Many of the car¬ 
toons dealt with incidents of his career, 
such as his very brief editorship of the 
Daily News , the first number of which was 
issued November 21, 1846, and events con¬ 
nected with his second visit to the United 
States in 1868. His death was also the 
occasion of many cartoons by various ar¬ 
tists showing incidents in his works grouped 
about his portrait. Some of these have 
been reproduced in Dickens by Pen and 
Pencil , by the late Frederick G. Kitton, 
some in the memorial edition of Forster’s 
Life of Charles Dickens , edited by B. W. 
Matz, and in The Dickensian, while others 
are to be found only in the various periodi¬ 
cals in which they were first produced. 

The writer has been more than ten years 
making his collection, and he believes that 
[16] 


other “Dickensians” who, while they may 
not have the time or inclination to make a 
similar collection of the originals, might like 
to possess photographic facsimiles of these 
cartoons and caricatures. He is therefore 
induced to share the fruits of his labors with 
his fellow-members of The Bibliophile So¬ 
ciety in permitting the pictures to be repro¬ 
duced and dispensed in this form, together 
with such letterpress as accompanied the 
originals; all of which it is hoped will prove 
of interest to the lovers of the writings of 
the greatest master of English fiction of the 
nineteenth century . 1 

1 This foreword was prepared by Mr. Wilkins only a few 
months before his death. 


[17] 


PLATE NUMBER I 


PUBLISHING DAY OF BENTLEYS 
MISCELLANY 

(with portrait of Charles Dickens) 

In the third issue of Bentley 9 s Miscellany , 
published in March 1837, was inserted an 
advertisement leaflet entitled Extraordinary 
Gazette , the text of which here follows. At 
the head of it appeared a woodcut from 
which the accompanying picture is repro¬ 
duced. It was drawn by “Phiz” (Hablot 
K. Browne) and engraved by John Thomp¬ 
son, and represents Dickens leading a 
“burly and perspiring” porter carrying on 
his head a huge consignment of the maga¬ 
zine. They are surrounded by excited en¬ 
thusiasts scrambling for copies as they fall 
from the top. 

B. W. M. 


[18] 









































EXTRAORDINARY GAZETTE 

SPEECH OF HIS MIGHTINESS 

On Opening The Second Number 
of 

BENTLEY’S MISCELLANY 
Edited By “Boz” [Charles Dickens] 

On Wednesday, the first of February 
(^y), “the House” (of Bentley) met for 
the despatch of business, in pursuance of 
the Proclamation inserted by authority in 
all the Morning, Evening and Weekly 
Papers, appointing that day for the publica¬ 
tion of the Second Number of the Miscel¬ 
lany, edited by “Boz.” 

His Mightiness the Editor, in his progress 
to New Burlington Street, received with 
the utmost affability the numerous peti¬ 
tions of the crossing-sweepers, and was re¬ 
peatedly and loudly hailed by the cabmen 
on the different stands in the line of road 
through which he passed. His Mightiness 
appeared in the highest possible spirits, and 
immediately after his arrival at the House, 
delivered himself of the following most 
gracious speech: — 

[ 19 ] 


“My Lords , Ladies , and Gentlemen: — 

“In calling upon you to deliberate on the 
various important matters which I have 
now to submit to your consideration, I rely 
with entire confidence on that spirit of 
good-will and kindness of which I have 
more than once taken occasion to express 
my sense; and which I am but too happy 
to acknowledge again. 

“It has been the constant aim of my 
policy to preserve peace in your minds, and 
promote merriment in your hearts; to set 
before you the scenes and characters of real 
life in all their endless diversity; occasion¬ 
ally (I hope) to instruct, always to amuse, 
and never to offend. I trust I may refer 
you to my Pickwick, and measures already 
taken and still in progress, in confirmation 
of this assurance. 

“In further proof of my sincere anxiety 
for the amusement and light-heartedness 
of the community, let me direct your par¬ 
ticular attention to the volume I now lay 
before you, which contains no fewer than 
twenty-one reports, of greater or less extent, 
from most eminent, active and intelligent 
commissioners. I cannot but anticipate 
that when you shall have given an attentive 
[ 20 ] 


perusal to this general report on Periodical 
Literature you will be seized with an eager 
and becoming desire to possess yourselves 
of all the succeeding numbers, — a desire 
on which too much praise and encourage¬ 
ment can never be bestowed. 

“Gentlemen of the Reviews: — 

“I have directed the ^earliest copies of 
every monthly number to be laid before 
you. They shall be framed with the strict¬ 
est regard to the taste and wishes of the 
people; and I am confident that I may 
rely on your zealous and impartial co¬ 
operation in the public service. 

“The accounts and estimates of the first 
number have been made out; and I am 
happy to inform you that the state of the 
revenue as compared with the expenditure 
(great as the latter has been, and must 
necessarily continue to be) is most satisfac¬ 
tory; in fact, that a surplus of considerable 
extent has been already realised. It affords 
me much pleasure to reflect that not the 
smallest difficulty will arise in the appropri¬ 
ation of it. 

“My Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen: — 

“I continue to receive from Foreign 

[ 21 ] 


Powers, undeniable assurances of their dis¬ 
interested regard and esteem. The free 
and independent States of America have 
done me the honour to reprint my Sketches, 
gratuitously; and to circulate them through¬ 
out the possessions of the British Crown in 
India, without charging me anything at all. 
I think I shall recognize Don Carlos if I 
ever meet him in the street, and I am sure 
I shall at once know the King of the 
French, for I have seen him before. 

“I deeply lament the ferment and agita¬ 
tion of the public mind in Ireland, which 
was occasioned by the inadequate supply 
of the first number of this Miscellany. I 
deplore the outrages which were committed 
by an irritated and disappointed populace 
on the shop of the agent; and the violent 
threats which were directed against him 
personally, on his stating his inability to 
comply with their exorbitant demands. I 
derive great satisfaction from reflecting that 
the promptest and most vigorous measures 
were instantaneously taken to repress the 
tumult. A large detachment of Miscellanies 
was levied and shipped with all possible 
despatch; and I have it in my power to 
state that although the excitement has not 
[ 22 ] 


yet wholly subsided, it has been, by these 
means, materially allayed. I have every 
reason to hope that the arrangements since 
made with my agent in the Port of Dublin, 
render any recurrence of the disturbances 
extremely improbable, and will effectually 
prevent their breaking out afresh. 

“I view with heartfelt satisfaction, the 
loyal and peaceable demeanor of the people 
of Scotland, who although they experienced 
a similar provocation to outrage and re¬ 
bellion, were content to wait until fresh 
supplies could be forwarded per mail and 
steam. 

“I feel unfeigned pleasure in bearing 
similar testimony to the forbearing dis¬ 
position and patriotic feeling of the hardy 
mountaineers in the Principality of Wales. 

“I have concluded treaties on the most 
advantageous terms, not only with the 
powers whose names are already known to 
you, but with others, to whom it might 
prove disadvantageous to the public ser¬ 
vice to make any more direct reference at 
present. I have laboured, and shall con¬ 
tinue to labour, most earnestly and zeal¬ 
ously for your pleasure and enjoyment; and 
surrounded as I am by talent and ability I 

[23] 


look most confidently to your approval and 
support.” 

NOTE OF THE REPORTER 

His Mightiness incorporated with his 
speech on general topics, some especial 
reference to one Oliver Twist. Not dis¬ 
tinctly understanding the allusion, we have 
abstained from giving it. 


[24] 


DICKENS AND PICKWICK 


In 1838 there was published in London 
by Sherwood, Gilbert and Piper ten etch¬ 
ings by Thomas Sibson enclosed in green 
wrappers bearing the title of “Sibson’s 
Racy Sketches of Expeditions, from the 
Pickwick Club.” 

The design on the wrapper comprised, at 
the top, the picture reproduced here repre¬ 
senting Dickens standing on the head of 
Mr. Pickwick and holding aloft an enor¬ 
mous quill pen. 

These “Sketches” are exceedingly rare 
and have brought high prices whenever 
sets have come into the auction markets. 

The preface to the collection reads as 
follows: — 

“Originally the ‘Pickwick Club’ appeared 
with four illustrations — but since Death 
chilled the life-depicting hand of poor 
Seymour, two embellishments have disap¬ 
peared, while eight pages of letterpress have 
been added. 


[25] 


“These papers thus arranged, bursting 
as they do with incident, and intoxicated 
as they are with wit, must have come before 
the public without illustrations of many 
striking scenes. Reader, were it not so, 
these sketches would never have seen the 
light of your eyes. 

“The artist’s hope (may you not find it 
a vain one) is that these humble efforts 
may afford some of the pleasure he enjoyed 
in imagining them. 

“T[homas] S[ibson]” 

[ii, Buckingham Place, London, 
January i, 1838] 


[26] 





PLATE NUMBER II 





















PLATE NUMBER III 
DICKENS AND 

MASTER HUMPHREYS CLOCK 

This picture by “Phiz” (Hablot K. 
Browne) appeared on the prospectus an¬ 
nouncing the publication of the serial issue 
of Master Humphrey's Clock in 1840. It 
shows Dickens leaning on one of the open 
doors of an old clock, from which emerge 
numerous characters, the only one easily 
recognizable being Mr. Pickwick, who has 
found a safe resting place on the floor. 

B. W. M. 


[27] 



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MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK 


In the little book Sketches of Young 
Couples published by Chapman and Hall in 
1840, there appeared the following adver¬ 
tisement: — 

“Now wound up and going, preparatory 
to its striking on Saturday, the 28th of 
March (1840), Master Humphrey’s Clock, 
maker’s name — ‘Boz.’ The Figures and 
Hands by George Cattermole, Esq., and 
‘Phiz.’ 

“Master Humphrey hopes (and is almost 
tempted to believe) that all degrees of 
readers, young or old, rich or poor, sad or 
merry, easy of amusement or difficult to 
entertain, may find something agreeable in 
the face of the old clock. That when they 
have made its acquaintance its voice may 
sound cheerfully in their ears, and be sug¬ 
gestive of none but pleasant thoughts. 
That they may come to have favourite and 
familiar associations connected with its 
name, and to look for it as a welcome friend. 

“From week to week, then, Master Hum¬ 
phrey will set his clock, trusting that while 
it counts the hours, it will sometimes cheat 
them of all their heaviness, and that while 

[29] 


it marks the tread of Time, it will scatter a 
few slight flowers on the Old Mower’s Path. 

“Until the special period arrives, and he 
can enter fully into that confidence with 
Jiis readers which he is impatient to main¬ 
tain, he may only bid them a short farewell, 
and look forward to their next meeting.” 

F. G. Kitton, in The Novels of Charles 
Dickens , wrote: — 

“The first number of Master Humphrey 9 s 
Clock appeared on April 4, 1840, and nearly 
seventy thousand copies were sold. The 
critics did not favour the new form of pub¬ 
lication— a kind of serial miscellany of 
tales and sketches — so that the circulation 
began to decrease; but it recovered when 
Dickens revived Mr. Pickwick and the 
Wellers, many of whose quaint sayings are 
to be found here. The construction of 
Master Humphrey's Clock was considered, 
however, to be inartistic; therefore the 
novelist speedily dropped the idea he once 
entertained of enlisting the services of other 
writers, and abandoned the plan of having 
an upstairs club around the Clock, as well 
as a similar social gathering downstairs 
under the name of ‘Mr. Weller’s Watch.’ 

[ 30 ] 


The cumbrous machinery disposed of, Dick¬ 
ens began seriously to work upon a con¬ 
tinuous story — that of the old Curiosity 
dealer and his grandchild — which began 
in the fourth number. On its conclusion it 
was followed by that more dramatic ro¬ 
mance, Barnaby Rudge, both of these tales 
appearing originally in Master Humphrey's 
Clock . 

“Dickens could not immediately decide 
upon a suitable designation for his new 
story. On March 4, 1840, he wrote to his 
friend Forster, ‘What do you think of the 
following double title for the beginning of 
that little tale? ‘Personal Adventures of 
Master Humphrey: The Old Curiosity 
Shop.’ I have thought of Master Hum¬ 
phrey's Tale; Master Humphrey's Narra¬ 
tive; A Passage in Master Humphrey's 
Life; but I also thought of The Old 
Curiosity Dealer and the Child, instead of 
the Old Curiosity Shop.' — The title se¬ 
lected by Dickens and approved by Mr. 
Forster has been objected to because there 
is scarcely anything in the book about old 
curiosities, while the bric-a-brac shop itself 
disappears from the scene in the early 
chapters. 


[30 


“It was issued in eighty-eight weekly 
numbers, imperial octavo (white wrappers) 
at 3 d each, and closing November 27, 1841; 
and also in twenty monthly parts in green 
wrappers, the price of each part varying 
from is to is, 3 d, this depending upon the 
amount of text in the number. The whole 
constituted three volumes. They were pub¬ 
lished (1840-41) by Chapman and Hall in 
cloth, cut edges, at £i. 6 s- 6 d. Instead of 
etchings as in previous works, the illustra¬ 
tions were engraved on wood. These were 
drawn by George Cattermole and Hablot 
K. Browne. Dickens was so delighted with 
Cattermole’s drawings that when thanking 
him for his invaluable co-operation, he said 
it was the first time any designs for what 
he had written had touched and moved 
him, and that had caused him to feel that 
they expressed the idea he had in his mind.” 


[32] 


PLATE NUMBER IV 

BOZ'S INTRODUCTION TO CHRISTO¬ 
PHER NORTH AND THE 
CALEDONIAN YOUTH 

The meeting of Dickens with Professor 
John Wilson and Peter Robinson, otherwise 
known by their nom de plumes as “Christo¬ 
pher North” and “The Caledonian Youth,” 
was the subject of a caricature engraving 
by A. Lesage (1841), a Scottish artist, 
showing Dickens being introduced by Lord 
Jeffrey to these two famous Scotsmen. It 
was inspired by the visit of the novelist to 
Edinburgh, where he was entertained at a 
public dinner and otherwise honoured by 
the literary lights of the city. In the back¬ 
ground are the familiar figures of Mr. Pick¬ 
wick, Sam Weller, and several characters 
from Nicholas Nickleby; whilst over them 
in the sky loom the shades of Scott and 
Burns. 

B. W. M. 


[33] 






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On the 18th of March 1841, Dickens 
wrote to his friend Forster, — “I had a 
letter from Edinburgh this morning, an¬ 
nouncing that Jeffrey’s 1 visit to London will 
be week after next; telling me that he drives 
about Edinburgh declaring there has been 
‘ nothing so good as Nell since Cordelia,’ 
which he writes also to all manner of people; 
and informing me of a desire in that roman¬ 
tic town to give me greeting and welcome. 
For this and other reasons I am disposed 
to make Scotland my destination in June, 
rather than Ireland.” 

Forster, in his Life of Charles Dickens 
wrote, — “Early in April Jeffrey came, 
many feasts and entertainments welcoming 
him, of which he very sparingly partook; 
and before he left, the visit to Scotland in 
June had been arranged in Edinburgh with 
Lord Jeffrey in the chair.” 

Dickens wrote to Forster on June 15, — 
“Jeffrey is not well enough to take the 
chair, so Wilson 2 does, and I think under 
all the circumstances of politics, acquaint¬ 
ance, and Edinburgh Review, that it’s much 
better as it is — Don’t you?” 

1 Francis, Lord Jeffrey. 

2 Professor John Wilson (“Christopher North”). 

[35] 


Dickens’s first letter to Forster from 
Edinburgh, where he and Mrs. Dickens 
took up quarters at the Royal Hotel on 
their arrival the previous night, is dated 
the 23d of June. He wrote: — 

“I have been this morning to the Parlia¬ 
ment House and am now introduced (I 
hope) to everybody in Edinburgh. The 
hotel is perfectly besieged. . . . They talk 
of 300 at the dinner. . . . There was a 
supper ready last night which would have 
been a dinner anywhere.” This, says 
Forster, was his first practical experience of 
the honours his fame had won for him, and 
it found him as eager to receive as all were 
eager to give. Very interesting, too, are 
those who took a leading part in the celebra¬ 
tion; and in his pleasant sketches of them 
there are some once famous and familiar 
figures not so well known to the present 
generation. Here, among the first, are 
Wilson and Robertson. 3 

Dickens’s letter continues: “The re¬ 
nowned Peter Robinson is a large, portly, 
full-faced man with a merry eye and a queer 
way of looking under his spectacles, which 
is characteristic and pleasant. He seems a 

3 Peter, afterwards Lord Robertson. 

[36] 


very warm-hearted earnest man too, and I 
felt at home with him forthwith. Walking 
up and down in the hall of the courts of 
law (which was full of advocates, writers 
to the signet, clerks and idlers) was a tall, 
burly, handsome man of eight and fifty, 
with a gait like O’ConnelFs, the bluest eyes 
you can imagine, and long hair — longer 
than mine — falling down in a wild way 
under the broad brim of his hat. He had 
on a surtout coat, a blue checked shirt; the 
collar standing up and kept in place with a 
wisp of black handkerchief thrust into his 
breast, which was all broad and open. At 
his heels followed a very sharp-eyed, shaggy 
devil of a terrier dogging his steps, as he 
went slashing up and down, now with one 
man beside him, now with another, and 
now quite alone, but always at a fast, rolling 
pace, with his head in the air, and his eyes 
as wide open as he could get them. I 
guessed it was Wilson, and it was. A 
bright, clear complexioned, mountain look¬ 
ing fellow, he looks as though he had just 
come down from the Highlands, and had 
never in his life taken a pen in his hand. 
But he has had an attack of paralysis in his 
right arm within the month. He winced 

[37] 


when I shook hands with him, and once or 
twice when he was walking up and down, 
slipped as if he had stumbled on a piece of 
orange peel. He is a great fellow to look 
at, and talk to, and if you could divert 
your mind of the actual Scott, is just the 
figure you could put in his place.” 


[38] 


YANKEE NOTES FOR ENGLISH 
CIRCULATION 

OR 

BOZ IN A MERRY KEY 

The above was the title of a comic song 
written by James Briton, the music ar¬ 
ranged to an American air by George Loder, 
and published by T. E. Purday, 50 St. 
Paul’s Churchyard London in 1842. It was 
in January of that year that Dickens made 
his first visit to the United States. 

The picture on the cover, reproduced 
here, showing Dickens enjoying himself in 
what looks like the cabin of a steamer — 
perhaps on his return voyage — is reputed 
to be by Alfred Crowquill. 

The following were the verses of the 
song. — B. W. M. 

Unto the land of Yankee, 

IVe been to take a view; 

To say “Tm hearty thank’ee” 

Unto his “how d’ye do?” 

IVe been to hold a parley. 

Their manners just to catch, 

And like another “Charley,” 

I’ve been upon the watch! 

[39] 


For English Circulation 
Are these my Yankee Notes. 

Our ship the sea while crossing. 

Would like a gambler play: 

At “pitching” and at “ tossing ,” 

She kept throughout the way. 
Myself, and all else in her, 

Ate nothing scarce, poor souls, 

But for breakfast, supper, dinner. 

The vessel gave us “rolls!” 

The Captain car’d no copper, 

Tho’ we for speed did look. 

But kept crying “back her” “stop her” 
As if he “short-cut” took! 

We roll’d about in tortor , 

And oftentimes we guess’d 
We should have our chests on water , 

Or water on the chest! 

I got the New York coast on. 

And said as I walk’d there, 

“This town is nought to Boast-on, 1 
Although it’s ve-ry fair!” 

In fact, as there I stood on. 

This thought upon me came — 

“The houses were all wooden , 

The inhabitants the same!” 


1 Boston. 

































I think I may as scholars, 

The Yankees put ’em down: — 

Their talk is all of dollars , 

Though they haven’t got a “Crown” 
For kingcraft there they don’t care: — 
And there’s a man that’s flat, 

So loyal that he won’t wear 
A Crown unto his hat! 

I noticed with dire pity, 

That “fire’s!” a constant shout, 

And Engines o’er the City, 

Like Organs play about! 

That both play “water pieces ,” 

The thought in my head pops; 

But here the idea ceases — 

The Engines have no “stops!” 

But fires are getting fainter — 
Incendiarism’s flat. 

For there’s a clever painter, 

Will put a stop to that! 

Though formed of wood, he’s shown, 
Each house will ’scape all right: — 
He’ll paint ’em so like stone, 

They will not catch alight! 

Some roads there be you travel. 

Indeed are but so so; 

And you must take your gravel, 

If on ’em you would go! 

And then the fog so thick was, 


And so tarnation strong, 

I was forced to use a pick-axe 
To cut my way along! 

There’s a Theatre so pack’d in 
With crowds — it is your doom 
If you would see the acting, 

You must take your own room . 

An Actor gets applause so, 

When he begins to spout, 

And on the boards he “draws” so, 
He draws the nails all out! 

The ladies have such bright eyes 
That if a fellow gaze. 

He like a moth in light dies, 

They send forth such a blaze! 

I met a Mrs. Randal — 

And no one could go nigh-her — 
At night she served for candle! — 
In winter for a fire!! 

Oysters, they so great give. 

To stay your appetite. 

You’ll always find a “Native” 

To prove a “ settler ” quite! 

They beat all others hollow — 

And tho’ it may sound droll, 

It takes two men to swallow 
A riggler oyster whole! 

Again I’m come home handy — 

I’ll roam no more — I’m fix'd — 

[42] 


Pleasure, ar’nt like Brandy, 
Good with water mixed! 
Memory e’en sickens, 

At the voyage all along, 

And if I’ve played the Dickens , 
I meant nothing wrong! 

For English Circulation 
Are these my Yankee Notes. 


[43] 









✓ 






4 








* 












V 


















# 














DICKENS AND THE “ARTIST IN 
BOOTS” 


Dickens on his first visit to the United 
States in 1842, had an experience with a 
boot-maker which he describes in the last 
chapter of American Notes , and which 
formed the subject of an illustration drawn 
by an American artist for the March (1843) 
number of an American monthly called 
The Pioneer . The following is an extract 
from Dickens’s description of the event: — 
The Republican Institutions of America 
undoubtedly lead the people to assert their 
self-respect and their equality; but a travel¬ 
ler is bound to bear those Institutions in his 
mind, but not hastily to resent the near 
approach of a class of strangers, who, at 
home, would keep aloof. This characteris¬ 
tic, when it was tinctured with foolish pride, 
and stopped short of no honest service, 
never offended me; and I very seldom, if 
ever, experienced its rude or unbecoming 
display. Once or twice it was comically 
developed, as in the following case, but 
this was an amusing incident, and not the 
rule, or near it. 


[45] 


I wanted a pair of boots at a certain 
town, for I had none to travel in but these 
with the memorable cork soles, which were 
much too hot for the fiery decks of a steam¬ 
boat. I therefore sent a message to an 
artist in boots, importing with my compli¬ 
ments, that I should be happy to see him, 
if he would do me the polite favour to call. 
He very kindly returned for answer, that 
he would “look round” at six o’clock that 
evening. 

I was lying on the sofa, with a book and 
a wine glass, at about that time, when the 
door opened, and a gentleman in a stiff 
cravat, within a year or two on either side 
of thirty, entered, in his hat and gloves; 
walked up to the looking-glass; arranged 
his hair, took off his gloves, slowly produced 
a measure from the utmost depths of his 
coat pocket, and requested me, in a languid 
tone, to “unfix” my straps. I complied, 
but looked with some curiosity at his hat, 
which was still upon his head. It might 
have been that, or it might have been the 
heat, — but he took it off. 

Then he sat himself down on a chair 
opposite to me; rested an arm on each 
knee; and, leaning forward very much, took 
[46] 



PLATE NUMBER VI 


































































































































































































































































































































































































































































from the ground, by a great effort, the 
specimen of metropolitan workmanship 
which I had just pulled off — whistling 
pleasantly as he did so; he turned it over 
and over; surveyed it with a contempt no 
language can express; and inquired if I 
wished him to fix me a boot like that! I 
courteously replied that provided the boots 
were large enough, I would leave the rest 
to him; that if convenient and practicable 
I should not object to their bearing some 
resemblance to the model then before him; 
but that I would be entirely guided by, and 
would beg to leave the whole subject to, 
his judgment and discretion. 

“You ain’t partickler about this scoop in 
the heel, I suppose then?” says he. “We 
don’t foller that here.” 

I repeated my last observation. He 
looked at himself in the glass again; went 
closer to it to dash a grain or two of dust 
out of the corner of his eye; and settled 
his cravat. All the time my leg and foot 
were in the air. “Nearly ready sir?” I 
inquired. 

“Well, pretty nigh,” he said; “Keep 
steady.” I kept as steady as I could, both 
in foot and face; and having by this time 

[47] 


got the dust out, and found his pencil-case, 
he measured me, and made the necessary 
notes. When he had finished he fell into 
his old attitude, and taking up the boot 
again he mused for some time. 

“And this,” he said at last, “is an English 
boot, is it? This is a London boot, eh?” 

“That, sir,” I replied, “is a London 
boot.” 

He mused over it again, after the manner 
of Hamlet with Yorick’s skull, nodded his 
head, as who should say, “I pity Institu¬ 
tions that lead to the production of this 
boot!” rose, put up his pencil, notes and 
paper — glancing at himself in the glass all 
the time — put on his hat, drew on his 
gloves very slowly, and finally walked out. 
When he had been gone about a minute, the 
door reopened, and his hat and his head 
reappeared. He looked round the room, 
and at the boot again, which was still lying 
on the floor; appeared thoughtful for a 
minute; and then said, — “Well, good 
arternoon.” 

“Good afternoon, sir,” said I; and that 
was the end of the interview. 


[48] 


CHARLES DICKENS AND THE NEW 
MORNING PAPER 


On the 2ist of January 1846, appeared in 
London the first number of a new morning 
newspaper entitled The Daily News , edited 
by Charles Dickens, which has continued 
its existence to the present day. Among 
those associated with Dickens in his enter¬ 
prise were John Forster, W. J. Fox, Douglas 
Jerrold, Mark Lemon, Dudley Costello, 
George Hogarth and John Dickens the 
novelist’s father. 

Dickens’s salary was £2000 a year and he 
entered on his task with his usual energy, 
and spent morning, noon and night at the 
offices. He soon found, however, that the 
continual labor, anxiety, and the mechani¬ 
cal drudgery such a task entailed were more 
than he could cope with, and after a few 
weeks he resigned the editorial chair to his 
friend Forster. He continued, however, for 
some time to contribute to its pages. 

The appearance of an important daily 
paper controlled by the inspiring force of 
such a man as Dickens, naturally created a 
good deal of excitement amongst other daily 

[49] 


papers, many of which, like Dickens’s 
friends, foretold disaster to him. 

Two cartoons which appeared in Me- 
pbystopheles on the 24th of January and the 
14th of February 1846, are reproduced here, 
together with the verses which accompanied 
them. 

B. W. M. 


[50] 



THE JACKASS DISGUISED AND THE PEACOCKS 

PLATE NUMBER VII 




































A FRIENDLY EPISTLE FROM 
ALBOBRANDENSIS 


Charley Dickens, be not too bold, 

Your Daily News is very old 
And will not prove a mine of gold. 

How could you, Charley, lend your name 
To such a vulgar losing game, 

The winding sheet of all your fame? 

Charley, my friend, repent by times, 

Attend to my prophetic rhymes: 

He hazards much who wayward climbs 

From height to height the Alpine steep, 

The Eagle’s nest, the giant’s leap; 

Slow and sure the way to creep; 

Stick to your novels, tales, and chimes; 

Or seek Italia’s sunny climes, 

Nor think to supersede the Times . 

From Mephystopbeles (London), 24th January, 1846 


TITANIA DICKENS TO BOTTOM — 
THE DAILY NEWS 

Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken donkey, 
Nor heed Times nor Chronicle, Grandma nor 
Flunkey: 

Though the leaders are scorned by my own Daily 
News , 

I who wrote them, to read them will never refuse. 

What’s an Editor made for, if he isn’t the brick. 
Circulation or none, to his paper to stick? 

I know not, I ask not, if they buy you or not, 

I but know that I edit thee — therefore they ought. 

Thou hast called me thy “Dickens” in moments of 
bliss, 

Still the Dickens I’ll play with thee even in this; 
While there’s shot in the locker thy fortune is mine, 
While a copper is left I am thy valentine. 

From Mephystopheles (London), 14th February, 1846 


[52] 



PLATE NUMBER VIII 




















HINTS TO NOVELISTS, FOR 1846 

The following is from The Comic Almanack for 
1846:— 

The increasing demand for this species of 
literature, whether with or without a pur¬ 
pose— the latter style being perhaps the 
most popular — has called forth a number 
of new pens to meet it. Some of these being 
rather new at their work, stand in need of 
a little assistance; and we are most happy 
in being able to give it, in the shape of those 
methods of commencing a tale which ex¬ 
perience has shown to be the most success¬ 
ful and hence the most universally followed. 

THE PSEUDO-GRAPHIC, OR WEAK 
BOZ-AND-WATER 1 

Any one whom business or pleasure has 
taken across Hungerford Bridge may have 
observed, on the right hand, as he reached 
the Lambeth side of the river, a curious 
tumbledown-looking counting-house, some¬ 
thing between a travelling caravan and the 
city barge, elevated on some rickety piles, 
with a rusty balcony projecting from its 
river front, and without any visible means 

1 Only text relating to Dickens is here reprinted. 

[53] 


of access or egress, except down the chim¬ 
ney, or along a rotten row of spouts, barely 
fastened to its decaying woodwork. It is a 
dismal, melancholy place. The glass has 
been untouched for years, and is coated 
with dirt, although through it may be seen 
files of old dust-covered papers, hanging 
amidst festooned cobwebs and corroded 
inkstands, with stumps of pens still stick¬ 
ing in the holes. Everything tells of broken 
hearts and ruined fortunes; of homes made 
desolate by misplaced confidence, and long, 
long lawsuits, which outlived those who 
started them, and were left — with nothing 
else — to the poor and struggling heirs! 

It was a miserable November evening; 
the passengers were glooming through the 
haze of the feeble lights, choked by the 
river fog, like dim spectres; and a melan¬ 
choly drip fell, in measured plashings, from 
every penthouse and coping, as two figures 
slowly pursued their way towards this 
dreary place, through some of the old and 
tortuous streets that lie between the York 
Road and the river side. 

The heroes (as the case may be) being 
thus introduced, the author can go ahead 
with his plot, if he has one. 

[ 54 ] 



PLATE NUMBER IX 













FROM WHOM WE HAVE GREAT 
EXPECTATIONS 

In 1861 a very curious photographic por¬ 
trait of Dickens flooded the shop windows 
in London. The head was carte-de-visite 
size, supported on a tiny little body out of 
all proportion, and producing a very bizarre 
effect. Below the picture was printed, 
“ From whom we have Great Expectations,” 
— an apt allusion to the novelist’s story of 
that name. This portrait so greatly amused 
Dickens that he could not refrain from 
alluding to it in a letter to the Hon. Mrs. 
Richard Watson, dated Gad’s Hill Place, 
July 8, 1861, in which he wrote: — 

“ I hope you may have seen a large-headed 
photograph with little legs, representing the 
undersigned, pen in hand, tapping his fore¬ 
head to knock out an idea. It has sprung 
up so abundantly in all the shops that I 
am ashamed to go about town looking in 
at the picture-windows, which is my delight. 
It seems to me extraordinarily ludicrous, 
and much more like me than the grave 
portrait done in earnest. It made me laugh, 
when I first came upon it, until I shook in 
open sun-lighted Piccadilly.” 

[55] 


Mrs. Watson, shortly before her decease, 
intimated to F. G. Kitton 1 her regret that 
she had never possessed a copy, and had 
only a faint recollection of ever having seen 
the portrait. Her surmise (which is prob¬ 
ably correct) is that it was taken from one 
of his many likenesses, and the attitude 
added, for in this manner similar portraits 
of other celebrities were treated — that of 
Dickens being one of the series. Miss 
Dickens also told F. G. Kitton that her 
father was intensely amused by the hu¬ 
morous portrait, and considered it so ex¬ 
traordinarily like him, he took it down 
to Gad’s Hill for her to see, admitting 
that “it really was good.” Miss Dickens 
regretted that she destroyed it in a momen¬ 
tary fit of disgust. Mr. Charles Kent con¬ 
sidered that it was in no sense a caricature, 
but a vivid and pleasing likeness, represent¬ 
ing Dickens with one forefinger on his 
forehead, and a bright, merry, side look out 
of his eyes. The novelist once told him 
that it was his favourite among all the 
portraits of him ever produced. 

F. G. Kitton, when he was gathering the 
data for his book, Charles Dickens by Pen 

1 In Charles Dickens by Pen and Pencil. 

[56] 



FROM WHOM WE HAVE 
GREAT EXPECTATIONS 


PLATE NUMBER X 






and Pencil , made great efforts to secure a 
copy of this photograph, even going so far 
as to advertise for it in some of the English 
newspapers, but without result, and in 
a footnote in his Supplement to Charles 
Dickens by Pen and Pencil , he says: — 

“Much to my regret, I am unable to 
give a copy of this now very scarce photo¬ 
graph. The original drawing was made by 
Mr. Charles Lyall for Mr. Herbert Watkins, 
who photographed it for publication. Mr. 
Watkins subsequently disposed of his busi¬ 
ness to Mr. Albert Young, and he at my 
suggestion, overhauled 35,000 negatives for 
the purpose of ascertaining whether the 
Dickens portrait was among them; but 
without success. It was probably destroyed 
with a number of others when, one night 
the shelf on which they were stored fell 
with a crash.” 

In 1918, there was published by John 
Lane, the London publisher, a work by 
Thomas F. Plowman of Oxford, entitled 
In the Days of Victoria , which contained a 
half-tone reproduction of the long-looked 
for photograph and it is through the cour- 

[57] 


tesy of an English collector of Dickensiana, 
that a copy has now been secured for 
reproduction. 


[58] 


TOM TIDDLER’S GROUND 
THE COMMITTEE OF CONCOCTION 


One of the features of Household Words 
and All the Year Round , was its Christmas 
number each year. These appeared anony¬ 
mously although it was known that various 
authors contributed chapters to each num¬ 
ber. Dickens would plan the story as a 
whole, write the first and sometimes the 
second and last chapters, whilst other well- 
known writers were asked to contribute the 
remaining chapters on certain fixed lines. 

Although at the time, the names of the 
writers of these were not revealed, they 
became known some years afterwards when 
the stories were re-published in complete 
form. 

The picture here reproduced from The 
Queen newspaper, humorously portrays one 
of the meetings assumed to have been held, 
when the form the story should take was 
fully discussed. It is purely imaginary and 
speculative, of course, for neither G. A, 
Sala, nor John HoIIingshead contributed to 
the story in question, and so were unlikely 

[59] 


to be present at “The Committee of Con¬ 
coction.” 

The story comprised seven chapters. 
Dickens contributed Chapters I, VI and 
VII, which find their place in his collected 
writings. Chapter II was by Charles 
Alston Collins, Chapter III by Amelia B. 
Edwards, Chapter IV by Wilkie Collins and 
Chapter V by John Harwood. 

In the picture the names, reading from 
left to right, are G. A. Sala, Wilkie Collins, 
Charles Dickens and John HoIIingshead. 
Who the figure may be standing at the 
back with hair on end is not stated; pos¬ 
sibly W. H. Wills, the assistant editor. 

The accompanying account of the meet¬ 
ing appeared with the picture. 


B. W. M. 



PLATE NUMBER XI 

































































































TOM TIDDLER’S GROUND 


EXTRAORDINARY PROCEEDINGS IN 
WELLINGTON STREET 

(From our own Reporter) 

A humorously attended and highly in¬ 
fluential meeting of Literary gentlemen was 
recently held at the office of All The Year 
Round, to arrange a plan for the Christmas 
number of that deservedly popular periodi¬ 
cal. Among those present we observed 
Mr. Wills, Mr. HoIIingshead, Mr. Moy 
Thomas, Mr. George Augustus Sala, Mr. 
Wilkie Collins, and other writers whose 
names are well known to the reading 
public. 

Mr. Charles Dickens, having unani¬ 
mously moved himself into the chair, re¬ 
marked that the eyes of Europe were upon 
them. (A laugh). The eyes of America had 
something else to look out for — in fact, were 
black eyes. (Roars of Laughter). They 
knew very well what he meant. (Hilarity). 
The time had arrived of another Christmas 
number. (Prolonged cheering). The blessed 
Christmas-tide! It came, with rest and 
gladness on its brave old wings, to whisper 

[61 ] 


comfort to the sinking heart, and bid mor¬ 
tality itself look forward to a bright here¬ 
after. (A silent pause). They knew very 
well what he meant. (Renewed hilarity). 
To come to the point (hear, hear!), he 
thought of a good many titles. Some of 
them would keep. (Signs of approval). 
There was The Flight of the Ladybird in 
Seven Wings . (Loud applause). For the 
present, however, he thought of “Tom 
Tiddler’s Ground.” (Cries of rapture). 
Yes, “Tom Tiddler’s Ground.” Think of 
their all picking up gold and silver! (Deaf¬ 
ening cheers). He thought it a very good 
title, indeed. (A laugh). His desire was 
to pay a fair price (hear!), and to cast a 
sunbeam on the path of toil. (Great merri¬ 
ment). He did not think the gentlemen 
present exactly appreciated him. (Cries of 
“We do! We do!”) Well, he could only 
say that he did not wish to make a comic 
speech, and that he considered their con¬ 
tinual laughter a very poor compliment. 
(Sensation). His object — he repeated it 
— was to cast a sunbeam on the path of 
toil, this blessed Christmas-tide. (A tear). 
That tear did honor to Mr. Sala’s heart. 
(Several gentlemen immediately shook 
[62] 


hands with Mr. Sala). “Tom Tiddler’s 
Ground! Picking up Gold and Silver!” 
He left the matter in their hands. (Roars 
of approbation, amidst which Mr. Dickens 
twice resumed his seat). 

Mr. G. A. Sala observed that he did not 
intend to be low. Far from it. He thought 
the idea a good one, and would readily 
assist in carrying it to a real and profitable 
end. (Cries of “No doubt”). He cared 
little for their jeers. The present meeting 
was in Wellington Street. Wellington 
Street was a noble thoroughfare — inferior 
perhaps to the Nevski Perspective at St. 
Petersburgh, where the mild Moujik, as he 
quaffed his raki, and read the poems of 
Pouschkine, so excellently adapted by 
Prince Galitzin to the music of Shika — 
let him see — oh, yes — where the Winter 
Palm and the unlimited loo— (Signs of 
weariness). Very good. He would be the 
last man to detain an audience unneces¬ 
sarily. If he were Socrates, Grattan, Mira- 
beau, Gavazzi, J. B. Gough, Quintas Hor- 
tentius, the late Mr. Burke, Jefferson, 
Coliqua, Dr. Jack, Captain Prosser, and 
Caius Plotius, all rolled into one — (marks 
of dissent) — very good again. If Mr. 

[63] 


Dickens wanted a paper he knew where to 
come for one. “Picking up Gold and 
Silver” was all nonsense; it would be 
heavy; it would be like the “Seven Tons 
of Gammon.” (A chuckle). Let there be 
picking up of carrots and turnips, and he 
was their man. (Mr. Sala sat down in the 
middle of a cheer). 

Mr. Wilkie Collins thought that the pub¬ 
lic were quite tired of descriptions of low 
life. He meant nothing personal to the pre¬ 
vious speaker, who was a very admirable 
essayist and a very keen observer, but could 
Mr. Sala conceive a plot? Life was not 
confined to Covent Garden Market. There 
were terrible tragedies around them. People 
were being murdered at that instant. Their 
corpses were being cut up for investment in 
carpet bags. Yes, the dagger and the bow 
were ever at work. At the dead hour of 
night — it was already getting late — spec¬ 
tres were up and about. He should not 
much like to walk home by himself. He 
meant to stop in the office with Mr. Wills. 
He should be very sorry indeed to disturb 
the harmony of the meeting, but life and 
death were serious matters. Murder was 
no joke. No man knew how soon the fatal 
[64] 


blow might be struck — from behind a 
lamp post, or even in a cab. He thought 
London had never looked more dreary than 
it did tonight. Evil forms were prowling in 
the streets. It would not greatly surprise 
him if something horrible were to happen 
to one or other of the gentlemen present 
before the publication of the intended 
Christmas number. He hoped that he had 
not said a single word to damp their Yule- 
tide joy. (Mr. Collins resumed his seat; 
a few groans and exclamations of terror 
escaped some of the gentlemen present, and 
then all was still). 

Mr. HoIIingshead said it was entirely a 
question of figures. What did they want? 
A Christmas number. Mr. Dickens knew 
the sort of thing the public demanded, and 
he also knew the sort of people who could 
supply it in a certain time. When was copy 
to be sent in? Because that was all about 
it. He looked at these matters from a 
purely business point of view, and so did 
everybody present. There was no difficulty 
in this affair. Say the word, and they 
would have the whole thing ship-shape by 
tomorrow before twelve o’clock. He was 
prepared to take it all himself, on contract. 

[65] 


(Cries of “Oh, oh!”). Don’t let them de¬ 
ceive themselves. Everything was worth 
its price, and if it was not wanted in one 
market it could be carried to another. He 
was not going to take up their time or waste 
his own by making any more remarks than 
were necessary. This was a matter of cal¬ 
culation, as he said before. Let them get 
out their pencils and check him if he was 
wrong. A hundred thousand times two¬ 
pence was twice a hundred thousand price; 
and then they would have to strike off from 
that the cost of— (Signs of dissatisfaction). 
He thought he had put his notions pretty 
clearly before them, and he had nothing 
more to say. It would be all right, they 
might depend on it. 

Mr. Moy Thomas said he entirely con¬ 
curred in the views which Holly had so well 
expressed. He hoped his inadvertent use 
of a familiar and, as it happened, a season¬ 
able application, would not be misunder¬ 
stood. Holly was his boyhood’s friend. 
Holly, he was proud to say, remained the 
constant companion of his maturer years. 
He had the utmost affection and esteem for 
Holly, and would heartily join him in any 
reasonably profitable enterprise. 

[ 66 ] 


Mr. Wills reminded the chairman that 
one object — indeed the main, if not the 
only object of the meeting — had been 
hitherto lost sight of. True, his friend had 
mentioned the collective title under which 
seven stories by different authors were to 
look so much like one dramatic and homo¬ 
geneous production as the public would be 
good enough to fancy. As he had fully 
expected, the announcement of that title 
had been received with an enthusiasm which 
might be understood to signify decided 
approval. But he took for granted that 
each contributor has his preconceived idea 
of a tale which would fit in somehow, what¬ 
ever title his friend the chairman would in 
the most redundantly imaginative of moods, 
be likely to propose. Did any gentleman 
happen to have anything in his pocket? 

Mr. Moy Thomas said he had eighteen 
and fourpence in silver, a crossed cheque 
for ten guineas, a bunch of keys, a pen¬ 
knife, a bright penny of the new bronze 
coinage, last week’s Athenaeum , a street 
ballad which he had purchased with a view 
to possible material for copy, and he be¬ 
lieved that was all. 

Mr. Wills said this was not what he 

[67] 


meant. Was any gentleman prepared to— 

Mr. Wilkie Collins drew a large roll of 
MS. from his pocket and said he was. 

A contributor (Inaudibly) — I thought so. 

Mr. Wilkie Collins (reading from the 
MS.), — “Susan Dustin’s Narrative. Which 
I were then in service at the AH, and the 
below air my sentminks.” 

Mr. Sala begged pardon for interrupting. 
— Was he to understand that this story 
emanated from a supposititious character as 
“low” — he repeated the word — as “low” 
in the social scale as a domestic drudge? 
Where, then, was all that refined apprehen¬ 
sion of the genteel thing, in which Mr. 
Collins and Goldsmith’s bear-dancer were 
in a concatenation accordingly? 

Mr. Wilkie Collins said he would not 
have Mr. Sala make too sure that this 
housemaid was a housemaid, after all; or 
at any rate that she was not a housemaid 
very much superior to her station. In fact, 
the sequel of her narrative would show that 
she had been to the same finishing academy 
with her master’s second wife and the mys¬ 
terious lady whose habit of always wearing 
a dress of a particular colour — mauve, in 
this instance — gave a tone to the story. In 
[ 68 ] 


order to preserve truthfulness, he had made 
these three female characters talk very 
much alike; and it would be noticed that 
they were all equally strong in the matter 
of adverbs. He would resume, — “And the 
below air my sentminks. I am totally un¬ 
acquainted with the purpose for which my 
testimony is desired, but I cannot divest 
myself of a presentiment that it will be 
necessary to avoid periphrasis. On the oc¬ 
casion of the unhappy dispute which de¬ 
prived me of the attentions of the young 
man with whom I had long held affectionate 
communication, it was thought desirable by 
my friends that I should contribute some¬ 
thing towards my own support, and I ac¬ 
cordingly accepted a situation as under¬ 
housemaid in the establishment of Sir 
Wattleby Collars, an engagement which led 
in time to my being, in a humble capacity, 
concerned in the events which have recently 
affected the family. I pass over the minor 
details of my ordinary occupation as both 
tedious and inconsequent, and will speak 
of a visitor and friend of Sir Wattleby’s — 
Herr Froszhjkon. This gentleman exercised 
a very considerable influence over my mas¬ 
ter, from the time of his arrival until the 

[69] 


catastrophe which terminated his visit; and 
I may remark that his singular fascination, 
notwithstanding his gloomy countenance 
and attenuated figure, was scarcely to be 
withstood, even by Lady Collars herself. 
He was extremely partial to dumb animals, 
and I have frequently seen him sitting on 
the lawn in the fine spring mornings, amus¬ 
ing himself with three tame oysters which 
he kept in a sandwich box. These interest¬ 
ing little bivalves were, I believe, of a 
foreign species (my former admirer had 
happened, himself, to be fond of oysters, 
and hence I had learned some of their ways), 
and Herr Froszhjkon was remarkably ten¬ 
der with them, — so much so that when 
one of them caught cold he kept it wrapt 
in a banknote, and gave it a globule when¬ 
ever it coughed. Lady Collars had more 
than once expressed, and I believe really 
felt, considerable repugnance for her hus¬ 
band’s friend; but she was, nevertheless, 
drawn by him very readily to converse on 
the subject of murder and other barbarous 
crimes, which I have lately been induced 
to believe the foreign gentleman preferred 
to the usual habits of good society. 

“The post had come in, one day, and 

[70] 


letters had been taken to Sir Wattleby’s 
room. An hour afterwards Herr Froszhjkon 
passed through the hall while I was engaged 
in cleaning the steps. I could see that he 
was unusually excited, from the fact of his 
having taken off his hat and forgotten to 
remove the favourite hedgehog which he 
was in the habit of allowing to repose there. 

“Another moment, and I heard him enter 
the library. I was still submitting the 
threshold to a whitening process, when a 
sudden altercation became audible, and the 
library door flying open, the foreign gentle¬ 
man was violently precipitated over the pail. 

“ 4 Go! ’ cried Sir Wattleby, adding a direc¬ 
tion which I omit. The foreign gentleman, 
scarcely stopping a moment to rub his two 
shins, took a speedy departure, pelted with 
his hedgehog, his hat, and his three oysters, 
by Sir Wattleby. I never saw Herr Froszh¬ 
jkon again alive. 

“I saw him again, notwithstanding, and 
under circumstances which forbid my de¬ 
scribing him as dead. I had been the first 
person of the household, as I supposed, to 
rise and set about the domestic work of the 
establishment. This was a week after the 
foreign gentleman’s disappearance. It could 

[71 ] 


scarcely have been daylight, even in the 
open air, and the library was quite dark as 
I entered it with my broom. The ordinary 
kitchen candle which I carried wanted 
snuffing, and as I snuffed it, I snuffed it out. 
Feeling my way across the apartment to 
the large bay window, I threw open the 
folds of the heavy shutter, and admitted 
the dimly-struggling rays of early dawn. 

“ Having thrown open the shutter, I 
hurried to commence my morning’s duties. 
I had no sooner turned than I started back 
and uttered a slight scream. The foreign 
gentleman was seated at the library table. 
He seemed to have been sitting there all 
night. Sir Wattleby’s papers were scattered 
all about; the lamp had burned down; and, 
as it appeared, Herr Froszhjkon had sat 
some time in the darkness. He was very 
pale — much paler even than usual — and 
as he fixed his dark eyes on me, smiled an 
unearthly smile. I was frightened at his 
look and his manner, and begging pardon 
for having disturbed him, I left the room, 
intending to see whether any of my fellow- 
servants were up and about. Not one of 
them was up and about. Returning un¬ 
willingly to the library door, I found it open, 

[72] 


and looked in. Herr Froszhjkon was not 
at the table. I glanced through the chink 
of the open door. Herr Froszhjkon was 
not behind it. I entered. Herr Froszhjkon 
was not in the room. I advanced to the 
writing table. There was a letter, addressed 
‘To Sir Wattleby Collars, Bart., F. R. S., 
F. S. A., etc., etc., etc. Immediate/ 

“As I looked at the letter a dark round 
spot fell upon it heavily, with a crisp, 
rattling sound, like a large drop of rain on 
a dead leaf. I touched it involuntarily with 
my fore-finger, and found that it was wet. 
Conceive my terror when, holding my hand 
up to the light, I saw the mark of blood. 

“ In the midst of my dismay — and I 
cannot tell how I had the courage to do 
this — I looked again at the letter as it lay 
on the table, and in another moment down 
dashed a second gory rain-drop on the first, 
spluttering the sickly splotch all over the 
white paper, and splashing upwards in my 
face. I raised my eyes and saw a dark 
stain of crimson in the centre of the ceiling, 
and I then knew that a fearful tragedy had 
been enacted above. 

“Sir Wattleby had gone to London two 
days before the event I am now narrating, 

[73] 


and was expected to return that day. Lady 
Collars occupied the chamber immediately 
overhead. She slept alone. It was her 
blood, then, which had stained the letter; 
and which I now remembered with a chilly 
sensation, was on my face and hand. 
What should I do? Alarm the household? 
An admirable idea. I proceeded at once to 
act upon it. 

4 ‘Lady Collars had been cruelly murdered 
in her sleep. The carving knife with which 
the deed had evidently been accomplished 
was one which I had been sent to sharpen 
carefully the previous day. It was of no 
avail, but the contrary, that I tried to 
remind a footman of his having told me 
that Sir Wattleby had abjurgated that very 
knife severely for being blunt. The man 
did not remember anything of the sort, he 
declared repeatedly. 

“I then told the people round me, and 
the officers of police who had by this time 
been fetched, of my having seen Herr 
Froszhjkon in the library. Everything was 
against the credibility of this statement. 
How did Herr Froszhjkon get into the 
house? How did he get out of it? But a 
far more overwhelming contradiction of my 

[74] 


story occurred very soon. The body of 
Herr Froszhjkon himself, perforated in the 
pericardial region with a skewer, was found 
in a copse at the other side of the park, 
and the surgeons pronounced life to have 
been extinct at least twenty-four hours. 

“I turned to look for the letter. I asked 
in agonized tones for the letter, as a cor¬ 
roboration of my evidence. No letter could 
be found, such as that which I described. 
It had vanished unaccountably — unac¬ 
countably at the time! But the foul plot 
has been discovered since, and to unravel its 
dark and intricate mazes will be the object 
of my continued narrative.” (Mr. Collins 
here folded up his MS. and returned it to 
his pocket. A shudder went twice around 
the room, and the gas was observed to burn 
rather blue). 

Mr. HoIIingshead supposed that all this 
might mean business, though it did not 
look like it. He had expected, on rising a 
second time, to be called to order, as he had 
already spoken. But the fact was, that the 
meeting was out of order altogether. He 
was not going to take up their time, be¬ 
cause he knew the value of time himself. 
Time was money. If it could not be 
[ 75 ] 


profitably disposed of in one market, it was 
always worth its price in another. He re¬ 
garded the matter which they were met to 
discuss entirely from a business point of 
view. He was a man of business himself, 
and they were all men of business. It was 
a question of figures. What was the story 
likely to be worth of which they had had 
a sample? He should be sorry to buy Herr 
Frowsy Co’s oysters at a penny a lot. 
When his friend, the chairman, had sug¬ 
gested “Tom Tiddler’s Ground” as a sub¬ 
ject, he (Mr. HoIIingshead) had supposed 
the great and wealthy city of London — of 
banking London — of Lombard Street, in 
fact — to be indicated. He knew a little 
about the currency and should be h^ippy 
to tell what he knew in the form of a tale, 
if required. 

Mr. Sala said he certainly thought that 
this was picking up neither gold nor silver. 
Picking up anything was a low action, and 
he strongly condemned anything that was 
low. The genteel thing was a genteel thing, 
after all, as Dr. Oliver Goldsmith had said; 
though he (Mr. Sala) considered it less 
respectable to admire Goldsmith than John¬ 
son. And, while mentioning Johnson, he 

[ 76 ] 


did not consider it out of place to say that 
he had no great opinion of Voltaire. The 
two men might be very well compared in 
relation to the two thoroughfares with 
which they were associated. Voltaire was 
as narrow as Maiden Lane, Dr. Johnson 
was broad as Fleet Street — morally and 
mentally speaking, of course. He looked 
upon Fleet Street as the greatest thorough¬ 
fare in the world, with the solitary excep¬ 
tion, perhaps, of the Nevski Perspective at 
St. Petersburgh. It was true that, archi¬ 
tecturally speaking, it has little pretensions. 
It could boast of no Acropolis, and could 
lay claim to no Alhambra. The Waithman 
obelisk was a poor substitute for that of 
Luxor; and St. Bride’s Church, albeit a 
symmetrical and a hallowed edifice, was 
inferior alike to St. Peter’s in magnitude of 
proportion, and to the Cathedral of Amiens 
in delicacy of detail. With Fleet Street, 
however, he had nothing to do. His present 
task was not an aesthetic diversion. He had 
to point out, deferentially and humbly, 
what in his poor judgment would be the 
right sort of thing for a Christmas number. 
He left to others the description of portico, 
peristyle, and pillar; of clerostory and 

[77] 


crypt; of bassi rilievi and bassi projundo; 
of terminal capitals and acanthic acces¬ 
sories. No such matters would be allowed 
to interfere with his consideration of the 
subject before them. He did not think, as 
he had said, that there would be much 
picking up of gold and silver on ground 
indicated by Mr. Collins. He did not think 
he should much care about undertaking the 
search with Mr. HoIIingshead for a guide. 
There was gold enough and silver enough in 
Lombard Street, Heaven knew; and there 
let it lie, or be picked up and played pitch- 
and-toss with, by brokers and grubbers, on 
the “heads, I win — tails, you lose” prin¬ 
ciple. He was sick of the City, sick of its 
mercenary ways, sick of its Lord Mayor. 
He did not expect that dignitary to be a 
Solon, a Rhadamanthus, or a Draco; a 
Baron Bramwell, a Peter the Cruel, a Judge 
Jeffries, a Tristan THermite, a Lord Mans¬ 
field, or a Cato the Censor. He was neither 
a podesta of Milan nor an alcaldo of Madrid, 
a Roman Iieter nor a Turkish kadi. He 
carried no fasces and exercised no fascina¬ 
tion. But he had the advantage of holding 
frequent communication with the Ruodu, 
the Ordinary of Newgate, the Clerk of the 
[ 78 ] 


Peace, the Sword-bearer, the Remembran¬ 
cer, the Sheriffs of London and Middlesex, 
the City Solicitor, and the Prothonotary of 
the Poultry Comper. In case of urgent 
need he might consult the collector of 
Broker’s Rents, the crier of the Old Bailey, 
the corn-shifter below bridge, the upper 
beadle of the Coal Market, the receiver of 
old materials, and the keeper of the Monu¬ 
ment. How, then, was it that they always 
found this civic magnate setting himself 
against public opinion? “Raco antecaden- 
tem non sequitur simillima cygno. Vides 
Soracte continget adire Corinthum!” The 
hob-nailed victim of agricultural oppression 
on the bleak coast of Dorset or in the sunny 
valleys of Kildare; the cheerful contadino 
of the wild Abruzzi, and the athletic agueros 
of Guipascoa; the swarthy cavass of Cappa¬ 
docian cities, and the inoffensive moujik 
who led a life of pastoral enjoyment within 
the shadow of the olive mountains of Tam- 
boff — these in their virtues, these in their 
liability to human error, these in their 
aspirations after ideal excellence, these, he 
said, were better subjects for the imagina¬ 
tion of the story-maker than the blind 
cohorts of a bullionic clique who opposed 

[79] 


the extension of the franchise. He did not 
agree with Mr. HoIIingshead, therefore, that 
the “Tom Tiddler’s Ground” of Mr. 
Dickens ought to be the “Tom Tiddler’s 
Ground” of Baron Rothschild or of Lord 
Mayor Cubitt. He would remind him, with 
all respect for his ability, and with un¬ 
feigned admiration of the delightful essays 
penned by him — “Under Bow Bells” — 
that the old Hindoo superstition, recorded 
in the Vedas, Puranas, and Mahabaratas, 
which deemed that the universe rested on 
the back of a gigantic tortoise, did not 
justify an idea that human nature reposed 
upon a turtle. 

Mr. Wills said he did not think the story 
begun by Mr. Collins would do. 

Mr. Moy Thomas did not think it would 
do either. 

The chairman said he would enter more 
fully into the plan which he had thought 
of when the title first occurred to him. He 
then proceeded to sketch the framework of 
the Christmas number of All The Year 
Round , which had just made its appearance. 
Everybody was charmed with the notion, 
and saw at once how he could help to work 
it out. 


[80] 


Mr. HoIIingshead thought it a pity that 
so much time had been lost, but observed 
that the best thing now would be to make 
a night of it. 

Mr. Moy Thomas said he should vote 
with any majority and stick to them. The 
sentiment was cordially echoed, and the 
meeting did not then break up. 

Tbe Queen, 21st December, 1861 


PLATE NUMBER XII 
OUR PRIZE ESSAYS — CONCLUSION 


GREAT MEETING OF COMPETITORS- 

NATURE OF THE PRIZE-NAMING THE WINNER 

Charles Dickens, second figure from the 
right 

From Fun (London), 29th August, 1863 


[82] 




































OUR PRIZE ESSAYS — CONCLUSION 


A general meeting of the gentlemen who 
have engaged in the competition for our 
Prize Essay was held last Saturday at the 
Fun office. The chair was taken by the 
Editor, who invited the gentlemen present 
to make any remarks that might occur to 
them, before he announced the nature of 
the prize and the name of the winner. 

Mr. W. M. Th-ck-ry . 1 — Does it matter 
very much after all? Sure Alexander wept 
when he had conquered the whole world, 
and ’tis not certain that the boy was wrong. 
Vanitas! Vanitas! A man shall attain 
fame, position, wealth; and they shall pall 
on him. Yonder fool (pointing to Mr. 
M. F. T-pp-r 2 ) is happier in his own con¬ 
ceit. Jenny and Jemmy Jessamy. 

The Poet CI-se . 3 — I rises to order, which 
I am werry anxious to know the name of 
him wot has won the prize. 

Mr. T-h-m-s C-rl-Ie . 4 — O, my human 
brothers, featherless bipeds, forked radishes, 
or gorillas of the Dead Sea ten times re¬ 
moved, as by Darwinian hypothesis — hy- 

1 W. M. Thackeray. 2 Martin Farquhar Tupper. 

3 Close. 4 Thomas Carlyle. 

[83] 


pothesis to me not altogether unbelievable, 
as at present advised — is there, then, no 
wisdom left in ye at all? Ach Himmel! 
And above Fleet Street this night, as over 
Babel, when they builded it, there will be 
glory of Moon and Planet, and Star-Dust- 
Cloud of Worlds, of Immensities; Abyss 
calls to abyss; and ye! My brothers, my 
brothers — with our Comic Literature, Rail¬ 
way Accidents, Adulterated Food Inquiries, 
and general wholesale forgetfulness of the 
Everlasting Veracities, it is not my opinion 
that we are in a good way of business just 
at the present hour. I will go away. (Goes 
away.) 

Mr. D-n B-c-c-It . 1 — Carry me out into 
the moonbeams! 

Mr. G. A. S-Ia . 2 — Let us remember 
where we are assembled. Were this Sack- 
ville Street, Dublin, the Nevskoi Perspec¬ 
tive at St. Petersburgh, the Prado of Ma¬ 
drid, the Unter der Linden of Berlin, were 
this, I say, a street— 

Mr. M. F. T-pp-r (seizing an opportunity 
to distinguish himself). — It is a street. 

Mr. Ch-rl-s D-ck-ns. — Fog. So dense 

2 George Augustus Sala. 

[84] 


1 Dion Boucicault. 


that you could cut it with a knife — so 
dense. 

Mr. Ch-rl-s R-de. 1 — My serial novel, the 
best work of a big man who knows his own 
bigness and who will not be dictated to by 
ANY editor whether; as, regards: punctua¬ 
tion or, spellin, is still in course of publica¬ 
tion and I claim to be heard. 

Mr. W-Ik-e C-II-ns. — The mystery which 
has long cast so deep and gloomy a shadow 
over this office may perchance be removed 
by a very simple narrative of facts. At 
exactly twenty-three minutes past eleven 
in the morning of the 29th of June 1862, a 
woman— 

Mr. W. E. GI-dst-ne. 2 — I will not detain 
the meeting more than three minutes, but 
there are three reasons which compel me to 
dissent from some of the statements made 
by the last three speakers. In the first 
place— 

Mr. B-nj-m-n D-sr-Ii. 3 — It is easier to 
define a reason than to inaugurate a prin¬ 
ciple. 

Mr. W. E. GI-dst-ne. — It is easier still 
to have no principle at all; and no one 

1 Charles Reade. 2 W. E. Gladstone. 

3 Benjamin Disraeli. 

[85] 


ought to be better acquainted with that 
fact than the right honourable member— 
The Editor of Fun (He, above the rest, in 
shape and gesture, proudly eminent, stood like 
a tower. — Milton). — Gentlemen, this is 
not the House of Commons. 

Everybody present . — Thank Goodness! 
Sir A.B.C.D.E.B. L-tt-n B-Iw-r B-Iw-r 
L-tt-n, Bart., M.P ., 1 Author of “Lucretia,” 
and Ex-secretary of State for the Colonial 
Department, etc., etc., etc. — In the Dawn 
of Ages the Fertile and the Ludicrous were 
one. If the useful and the good— 

Mr. M. F. T-pp-r. — I say, Sir Edward, 
don’t you think that when you are indulging 
in serious reflections, your style of composi¬ 
tion becomes a great deal like mine? Timid, 
you know; for he that Iifteth up the voice 
of platitude amidst the assembly of the 
young and gay is ever— 

The Editor of Fun . — Has any other 
gentleman any remarks to make? (Roars of 
laughter ). Because, if so, now is the time 
to do so (yells of merriment, which made the 
welkin ring). Eh? (Ha! Ha! ha! from Mr. 
T-pp-r, who immediately afterward perceiving 
that no joke was intended, wept a good deal). 

1 Sir Edward G. E. Lytton Bulwer-Lytton. 

[ 86 ] 


Mr. W. E. A-t-n . 1 — I would simply sug¬ 
gest that the prize ought to be given to a 
Scotsman. 

Mr. J-m-s H-nn-y . 2 — Ut Mars , Bacchus f 
Apollo , Vivorum. Jolly old Caledonia! 

Mr. Ch-rl-s L-v-r , 3 and F-th-r Pr-t . 4 — 
Or to an Irishman! 

Mr. J-m-s H-nn-y. — Nee sinit esse Jeros. 
Jolly old Hibernia! 

Mr. Th-m-s H-gh-s . 5 — Why not to a 
specimen of good, tough Saxon manhood? 

Mr. J-m-s H-nn-y. — Surgit amari ali- 
quid . Jolly old Britannia! 

The Editor of Fun . — Gentlemen, the 
Prize is ( here there was such a burst of cheer¬ 
ing that our reporter could not distinguish what 
was said) and I am sure that you will most 
of you acknowledge that it could not be 
bestowed upon an abler writer, or a more 
accomplished gentleman than Mr. — ( the 
name was quite inaudible, owing to the ac¬ 
clamations with which it was received). But, 
gentlemen, there is still work before us, 
work which will task our utmost energy. 
Henceforth all great literary achievements 
must depend upon the application of the 

1 W. E. Austin. 2 James Hannay. 3 Charles Lever 
4 Father Prout. 5 Thomas Hughes. 

[87] 


principle of association. Gentlemen, we 
must be united. We must band ourselves 
together. You have all helped to make 
Fun what it is, but the Fun of the future 
will be Funnier than the Funniest Fun of 
the past. To help in this, I have started an 
association, of which I invite you to become 
members. Will you join — 

The London Joint-Stock Novel Company 
(Limited)? 

Omnes. — We will! We will! 

The Editor of Fun . — Then, gentlemen, 
I summon another meeting for this day 
week, when you will each be allotted a chap¬ 
ter in our forthcoming romance (Sentimen¬ 
tal, Philosophical, Cynical, and Magical), 
entitled — 

Philip Dombey , the Scalp-Hunter s Round¬ 
about Secret Legacy. By Every Eminent 
Writer of the Day. 

From Fun (London), 29th August, 1863 


[88] 


PLATE NUMBER XIII 
THE LONDON JOINT-STOCK NOVEL 
COMPANY (LIMITED ) 

Charles Dickens talking to Wilkie Collins 
(the latter in female costume) 

From Fun (London), 5th September, 1863 


[8 9 ] 













THE LONDON JOINT-STOCK NOVEL 
COMPANY (LIMITED) 

The adjointed meeting of the promoters 
of this Company was held, pursuant to 
appointment, at the Fun office, on Saturday 
last. The scene was dazzling and gorgeous 
in the extreme. Gas was laid on, and sand¬ 
wiches decked the directorial board. The 
chair (a very sweet one, of the Windsor 
pattern) having been taken by the Editor, 
he was about to open the proceedings 
when — 

Mr. Thackeray asked him what was the 
use? 

The Editor, however, after a brief but 
spirited reply, had commenced to lay the 
schemes of the Company before the meet¬ 
ing, when — 

Mr. Anthony Trollope remarked that if 
what they wanted was a series of graphic 
sketches of clerical life, he should be very 
happy to contribute, but he really thought 
that the day for sensational romance had 
gone by. 

Captain Mayne Reid said that he was of 
a different opinion. It seemed to him that 
men never tired of those distant prairies 

[91 ] 


where the felis domesticus (or common cat) 
listened to the wail. 

The Poet Close said this here was very 
like a whale. Wot he wanted to know wos 
wether any chapters would be written in 
werse? 

The Editor. — I really beg your pardon. 
In—? 

The Poet Close. — In werse, sir, — as a 
man may say, in rhymes — like these here, 
for instance: — 

Our hero next of youth and courage full 
Rescued his Angelina from the furious attack of a 
mad bull 

Which would otherwise have gored her, and cracked 
her skull. 


The Editor having replied that nothing 
of the sort would be admitted into his 
columns, the Poet left the rooms immedi¬ 
ately afterwards. 

Mr. M. F. Tupper wanted to know 
whether the words of wisdom from the lips 
of age would fall flatly upon the public ear? 

The Editor having answered that he 
rather thought they would — 

Mr. Wilkie Collins wished to hear whether 

[92] 


the proposed novel would have a dead 
secret in it? 

The Editor having answered in the af¬ 
firmative — 

Mr. Charles Reade wished to know 
whether he should be allowed to regulate 
his own punctuation? If not, he would fix 
a brand of everlasting ignominy upon the 
wretched man who thwarted him. 

The Editor having promised to allow 
Mr. Reade to correct his own proof-sheets— 

Sir E. L. B. L. B. Lytton wished to know 
whether he was expected to write in the 
style of “ Pelham,” of “ Ernest Maltravers,” 
or of the “Caxtons?” 

The Editor having expressed his willing¬ 
ness to receive specimens of all three — 

Mr. Charles Lever begged to inquire 
whether any part of the story would admit 
of descriptions of Irish life and of Irish 
society? 

The Editor having replied that he thought 
it extremely probable — 

Mr. Charles Dickens wished to know 
whether the Editor was really in earnest 
in his reply, as in that case he did not 
think he should contribute. 

The Editor having breathed a tender vow 

[93] 


that he hoped Mr. Dickens would recon¬ 
sider his decision — 

Mr. John HoIIingshead expressed a desire 
to be informed when copy would really be 
required. 

The Editor having promised to give 
ample time — 

Mr. Tom Taylor asked whether transla¬ 
tions from a neighbouring — in fact, the 
Gallic — tongue would be permissible? 

The Editor having pledged himself to 
think it over — 

Mr. James Hannay inquired whether 
descriptions of naval life, with occasional 
references to the jolly old Mediterranean, 
would be desirable? 

The Editor having said that he would 
see about it — 

Sir Archibald Alison asked whether he 
would be allowed to write an historical 
introduction in thirty-seven volumes? 

The Editor having scouted the pro¬ 
posal — 

A Lady inquired whether there would be 
any bigamy? 

The Editor having responded in the 
affirmative — 


[94] 


Mr. Thackeray again desired to know 
what it all mattered? 

The Editor having answered that he did 
not know — 

Mr. John Ruskin asked whether descrip¬ 
tions of the particular effect of sunlight 
upon the iridescent cataracts of Cadon 
could be appropriately introduced? 

The Editor having promised to give the 
idea his best attention — 

Mr. G. A. Sala wished to be informed 
whether allusions to Russian and other 
thoroughfares would be allowed? 

The Editor having replied that a man of 
real ability might choose his own topics — 
Mr. Dion Boucicault asked whether any 
of the characters would be ultimately car¬ 
ried out into the moonbeams? 

The Editor having answered that he 
thought it extremely likely — 

Mr. Arthur Sketchley inquired whether 
he would be permitted — as if not, he 
didn’t hold with it — to allude to Mrs. 
Brown? 

The Editor having consented — 

Father Prout, so gaily, ere saying vale, 
would ask a question in simple tone: 
whether bards Hibernian, who sipped Fa- 

[95] 


Iernian, might make allusion to Blarney 
Stone? 

The Editor having given his full per¬ 
mission — 

Mr. Harrison Ainsworth wanted to know 
whether a description of a ride to York 
(including a brief reference to the Tower 
of London) would be acceptable. 

The Editor having said he was getting 
rather fatigued — 

Mr. Thomas Hughes wanted to know 
why, in a meeting of Ancient Anglo-Saxon 
men like that, there was no beef — no 
bread — no beer. 

The Editor having rung the bell for re¬ 
freshments — 

The office boy begged to ask what was 
wanted? 

The Editor having said that champagne 
with its usual concomitants were wanted — 

All the contributors smiled, and promised 
to stay. 

No further business was transacted, be¬ 
yond the usual vote of thanks to the 
Chairman. 

Our office has since been absolutely be- 
seiged by eminent writers, all rushing in to 
deliver their copy. Further particulars 

[96] 


(plot, etc.) in our next, and in our next but 
one, with which we shall commence the 
fifth volume of our series (each series to 
consist of a hundred volumes), then will 
appear the first instalment (illustrated) of— 
Philip Dombey, the Scalp-Hunter s Round¬ 
about Secret Legacy. By Every Eminent 
Writer of the Day. 

Captain Mayne Reid has kindly insisted 
upon writing the first chapter. 

From Fun (London), 5th September, 1863 


[97] 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

Our National Portrait Gallery — 
No. 2, Charles Dickens 

LITTLE ADDRESSES TO BIG NAMES 
Poet in Prose, 

How many a heart hath shaken off awhile 
Its weight of woes! 

How many a selfish sigh and sorrow. 

Diverted from our own distress. 

Hath pow’r been given thee to borrow 
By very force of gentleness! 

Sam Weller, Pecksniff, Quilp, and Richard Swiveller 
Are all before us where to choose a favourite. 
Sweet Nelly, and that grand-paternal driveller, 
Whose folly has a tender touch to flavour it. 
Uriah Heep, the sentimental sniveller, 

Whose name required a sea of scents to savour 
it; — 

The dental Carker too, our soul's abhorrence — 
Dear Captain Cuttle, Paul, and Little Florence. 

[98] 



PLATE NUMBER XIV 











































































































Yes, well may one excuse us, 

With such a stock-in-trade upon our shelves, 

For laughing or for crying as you choose us. 
And quite forgetting all about ourselves. 

We picture, as we wander 
On sunny days about the Temple Garden, 

John Chester smiling at a window yonder. 

And then we dream of Hugh and Dolly Varden. 

Who could think of stopping single 
For a moment of his life, 

After knowing Peerybingle 
And his darling of a wife? 

Who can watch the coming coldly 
Of the merry Christmas times, 

That has followed Trotty boldly 
To the belfry and the chimes? 

We will not blame you if your pen is idle. 

Or goes to sleep on such a reputation; 

The fault is Time’s, if Time has put a bridle 
Upon your fancy and imagination. 

We leave it for the critics to complain, 

And say your early were the greater ones; 

But as you cannot give us those again. 

We wish to see the latest of your later ones. 

From Fun (London), 17th August, 1867 


[99] 



PLATE NUMBER XV 
AU REVOIR! 

On the occasion of Charles Dickens’s 
departure from England on his second visit 
to America, this cartoon representing John 
Bull bidding him farewell, appeared in the 
London paper Judy on the 30th of October 
1867, together with the following poem. — 

B. W. M. 

’Twas not without a serious thought 
We saw depart, across the deep, 

The man who has so nobly taught 
His fellows how to laugh and weep. 

’Twas not without a touch of pride 
We sent, to greet our Yankee brother, 

The man whose lessons, far and wide. 

Instruct all men to love each other. 

’Twas not without an anxious hope 
To see him safely back once more 
We saw the severing of the rope 
That held his vessel to our shore. 

’Twas not without a glistening eye, 

A trembling of her shapely paw, 

That JUDY at the last “good-by” 

Exclaimed “Charles Dickens, au revoir!” 


[ 100] 



FAKKWKXL TO lHl’KKNS. 
























































































































































* • 








AU REVOIR, CHARLES DICKENS 

The farewell blessings which have been 
bestowed on Charles Dickens on his de¬ 
parture from England have been only less 
warm and affectionate than our greetings of 
welcome on this side of the water. Almost 
all the English papers have had a kind 
word at parting, and have wished him 
“God-speed” and a pleasant voyage. “Mr. 
Charles Dickens,” says the London Review , 
sketching the man in an apropos biography, 
“now sailing on the seas which divide 
America from England, with the avowed 
purpose of ‘laying down a third cable’ be¬ 
tween the old mother land and the vigorous 
race which has sprung from her, — but ere 
this time often to be seen walking the 
Strand, or more vigorously that Kentish 
road which leads to Rochester, — is a 
small, compact, well-built man, with a re¬ 
markable face; handsome, intellectual, and 
lined with thought, surmounted with hair 
once richly abundant, but now thin and 
wiry, and surrounded with beard and mus¬ 
tache which tell of hard work and much 
outdoor progress in all sorts of weather. 
That man is the best known of all English 

C ioi n 


authors; is a power in England, in America, 
and in Europe; has been able to mould 
the thoughts of thousands of his country¬ 
men; and has by successive and fortunate 
endeavor won a name with his countrymen 
nearly as much known as that of Shake¬ 
speare.” 

Among the best things said and done, 
however, is to be found in the new London 
comic, Judy . It consists of a full-page 
cartoon, in which Mr. Dickens is repre¬ 
sented as about to embark, and the charac¬ 
ters which he has created have gathered 
about him to say farewell. We reproduce 
this cartoon, as of especial interest at this 
moment. Mr. Dickens is seen shaking 
hands with John Bull. Near him on his 
right Mr. Pickwick is advancing, while Mr. 
Micawber stands nearby ready prepared 
with a high-sounding eulogium on his 
creator. Sairey Gamp is evidently deter¬ 
mined to come with him, while Captain 
Cuttle looks solemn, and Barnaby Rudge 
grows more than usually melancholy over 
the prospect of parting. 

From Harper’s Weekly , 14th December, 1867 


[ 102] 


COSTER CHARLEY 
a la Chicago 

4 ‘Charles Dickens owes much of his fame 
to the exposure of an American real estate 
boom on the lower Ohio river. We can 
never be too thankful to Mr. Dickens for 
the remarks that he wrote to the papers 
about the character of ‘Eden/ Although 
they did not operate to stop softies from 
going into the country, they have neverthe¬ 
less done something toward keeping ‘The 
Talent’ in the towns where the saloons are 
always open and where one can touch a 
friend for ‘five’ on an occasion of stress. 
We do not know what would happen to a 
man eleven miles from a neighbor who is 
suddenly overcome with a desire to make a 
touch, or take a concluding one with the 
‘house.’ It is certain as anything that 
Charles Dickens’s exposure of farming had 
a great deal to do with building up Chicago. 
And what a wonderful city it is! How 
proud Charley would be if he could see 
Chicago today, with her twelve hundred 
policemen and her brilliantly accoutered 
patrol wagons! It needed a man like 
Dickens, with all the boldness to tell the 

c 103] 


truth, to stop this country from becom¬ 
ing purely agricultural without a criminal 
class to give enjoyment to the judges, or a 
‘statoo’ in a public park, Dickens was 
one part English and the other human 
being. Occasionally he broke away from 
England and put down some things that 
everybody takes an interest in. His books 
are considered very clever, but to our no¬ 
tion they are far too long. Anthony Hope 
would have written a good many stories 
out of the material that Dickens threw 
away on one, and Rider Haggard would 
absolutely have cried at Dickens’s wanton 
manner of tossing off plots. Some of the 
best things that Dickens wrote are as 
follows: (Here a full list of his works). 
The worst thing we know about Dickens 
is that his son came over here to read from 
his father’s works without first having 
looked up the big words.” 

[ Source unknown. ] 


C104] 



PLATE NUMBER XVI 











DICKENS AND HIS AMERICAN 
FRIENDS 


It has been apparent from his first (or 
rather his second) encounter with the 
custom-house officials, and the several gen¬ 
tlemen who sailed to meet him in Boston 
Harbor, that Mr. Dickens is to find no 
diminution in the number, and we fear 
little change in the humor, of his friends in 
America. They have already appeared 
equally as numerous and as violently demon¬ 
strative as they were twenty-five years 
ago; and they promptly began the siege 
of his quarters as soon as he was safely en¬ 
sconced therein. But Mr. Dickens, if we are 
to believe the telegrams from the “Hub,” is 
wiser in this age and generation than he 
was in the previous one, and does not intend 
to be at once bored out of humor, and de¬ 
ceived as to the American character by that 
class indigenous to every soil, and to be 
found in every society which thrusts itself 
unasked and uncalled on every distin¬ 
guished individual who visits us, be he 
Lord, Snob, or Genius. To the multitude 
who endeavored to invade, in platoons, his 
quarters at the Parker House, Boston, it is 
[ 105] 


reported that he wisely answered, “Not at 
home.” 

Any one can imagine, as our artist has, 
the style of the “American friends” who 
endeavored to thrust themselves upon Mr. 
Dickens. They are doubtless the identical 
representatives of the identical classes whom 
he encountered on his first visit, and whom 
he has described, not in the American Notes 
at which we so foolishly grumble, but in 
that broader satire on our peculiarities, 
Martin Chuzzlewit. Of course his first visi¬ 
tor was the pre-eminently American news¬ 
boy with the identical Sewer, full of the 
same slang and abuse with which he was 
greeted on his first advent. Papers of that 
style, Colonel Divers to edit them and 
Jefferson Bricks to report for them, are 
no more likely to die out than are the race 
of news-boys; and many such have ere this 
heard “Mark Tapley” or Mr. Dolby answer 
through the keyhole, “Not at home.” The 
country can still muster any number of the 
youthful Pograms of the South, equally 
economical of soap and extravagant of hair, 
who will ruminate as seriously over their 
tobacco-plugs as did their great original, 
and who, in lieu of having slavery and other 
[ 106] 



PLATE NUMBER XVII 







































“institootions” to talk about will, if per¬ 
mitted, tell this “morbid British hater of 
the institootions of our country” all about 
“the oppressions of the Chivalry,” and re¬ 
new their allusions to “Repudiation.” The 
“Jineral Fladdocks” are multiplied by 
dozens, and Mr. Dickens will hardly be 
able to turn a corner of the street without 
encountering one, looking as important “as 
if the city were in a state of siege, and no 
other general to be got for love or money.” 
The “Edens” and the “Mr. Scadders” and 
“ChoIIops” are no longer to be found along 
the Mississippi; Mr. Dickens will have to 
make a visit towards the western end of the 
Pacific Railroad to encounter the genuine 
Scadders and ChoIIops; but the “man and 
the brother” can be seen in his old abiding- 
place, though under very changed circum¬ 
stances from those under which he first 
encountered him. He need journey no 
farther than New York to find “Major 
Pawkins” in all his glory and importance, 
regulating ward elections and imagining 
himself a Bismarck, controlling the destinies 
of the nation. He will find “mothers of the 
modern Gracchi” and LL’s in any quantity 
in all parts of the country, including Boston; 

[ 107] 


and in short, if he is to keep open house, it 
will go hard if his old friends whom he 
immortalized in Chuzzlewit are not among 
the first to turn up. 

But it appears Mr. Dickens intends this 
time to study American character at his 
leisure and not by wholesale. He is to 
choose his acquaintances. We are heartily 
glad of it; we trust that Colonel Diver, Mr. 
Brick, Mrs. Hominy, and Mr. Pogram will 
keep, or be kept, in the background; and 
we may hope that Mr. Dickens’s new 
American Notes and novels, in which he is 
to paint the changes of the past quarter of 
a century, will contain fewer uncomfortable 
facts and more agreeable characters than 
did his former ones. 

From Harper*s Weekly (New York), 21st Decem¬ 
ber, 1867 


[ 108] 


PLATE NUMBER XVIII 
A MAN AND A BROTHER 

Uncle Sam — “Wal, Charley, I guess 
you’re welcome; let me introduce to you 
our new brother from down South — the 
most remarkable man in the country.” 

From Banter , 21st December, 1867 

These are the only words which accompany 
the cartoon. Banter was an illustrated 
paper published in London and conducted 
by George Augustus Sala. 

B. W. M. 


[ 109] 






■H- 















































































































































































DICKENS AS A PEDESTRIAN 

It has been whispered during the past 
month that a twelve mile walking match 
would come off during Mr. Dickens’s pres¬ 
ent visit to Boston, between an English 
friend of his and a well known Bostonian. 
No one could tell precisely the day, and it 
was kept very quiet till last Saturday morn¬ 
ing, when rumor got wind that sometime 
during the day it would come off. The great 
novelist, as is well known, is a superb pedes¬ 
trian, being good for thirty miles “on end” 
any day. He has frequently during his 
visit to America taken very long walks with 
his friend, Mr. J. T. Fields, and the two, 
we understand, accomplished several pedes¬ 
trian feats together in England. There is 
no healthier exercise than walking and it 
was resolved that a pedestrian twelve mile 
contest should be tried on the mill-dam 
road towards Newton, in which Mr. Dolby 
and Mr. Osgood should be the principals, 
and Mr. Dickens and Mr. Fields should be 
the umpires, the two latter gentlemen also 
to walk the whole twelve miles with their 
respective men. The articles, we under- 

[in] 


stand, were drawn up by the great author 
and subscribed by all four of the gentlemen. 
Whoever had happened to be passing over 
the mill-dam on Saturday last about twelve 
o’clock would have met walking over the 
ground at a tremendous pace the four 
pedestrians, costumed for the exercise and 
the blustering state of the weather. We 
have no particulars of the walk out and in, 
but we learn that the first six miles were 
accomplished in one hour and twenty-three 
minutes, and the return six miles were 
finished by Mr. Osgood in one hour and 
twenty-five minutes, he winning the match 
by exactly seven minutes. The distance 
walked over we should judge to exceed 
twelve miles, and it was pretty tall pedes- 
trianism to accomplish the whole in two 
hours and forty-eight minutes. Both men, 
accompanied by the umpires walked the 
whole distance. 

Mr. Dickens gave an elegant dinner at 
the Parker House the same evening to sig¬ 
nalize the occasion, at which were present, 
we understand, some of the leading literary 
men of our city and vicinity. Several ladies 
graced the festival. Walking is a manly and 
healthy exercise, and we hope this event 
c 112] 



PLATE NUMBER XIX 




will do good and send more people over our 
beautiful roads on their own legs. 

From The Boston Daily Advertiser , 3d March, 1868 


THE BRITISH LION IN AMERICA 

AND 

CHARLES DICKENS AND THE 
HONEST LITTLE BOY 

These two caricatures (Nos. XX and 
XXI) appeared in The Daily Joker and 
The Evening Telegraph respectively, both 
of New York. The artists evidently had 
before them the well-known photograph by 
Gurney, showing Dickens in his dressing 
gown standing by a table, for they are 
obviously extravagant exaggerations of that 
picture. 

F. G. Kitton, commenting on the persis¬ 
tence of the caricaturist in making Dickens 
adopt the so-called cockney treatment of 
the letter “h,” said, “Dickens no doubt 
enjoyed all this good-natured raillery, well 
knowing it to be a natural consequence of 
popularity. Such pleasantries are not nec- 

c 113] 


essarily the outcome of personal spite, but 
are more frequently induced by that harm¬ 
less spirit of fun to which all celebrities, in 
every age and country, have been more or 
less subjected.” 

The second of the two caricatures, it will 
be observed, was by Thomas Nast, the 
artist who illustrated an American edition 
of The Pickwick Papers and other stories 
by Dickens; and the other is probably 
from the same pen. 

B. W. M. 


[ 114] 



PLATE NUMBER XX 







































































































































PLATE NUMBER XXI 

CHARLES DICKENS 
AND THE HONEST LITTLE BOY 

By Thomas Nast 

“Hello, Mister; look-a-here, 
you've dropped suthin' ” 

The Evening Telegram (New York), 1868 


c ”5] 








































































1' 





























PLATES XXII —XXVI 

CHARLES DICKENS IN AMERICA 

1867-1868 

During Dickens’s reading tour in the 
United States in 1867-1868, many of the 
comic periodicals naturally seized the op¬ 
portunity of making him the butt for their 
banter and humour. Skits and caricatures 
appeared in many journals, in which he 
and his manager George Dolby prominently 
figured. 

The five specimens which are reproduced 
here (Plates XXII-XXVI) are fair samples 
of the nature of the wit and satire displayed. 
Mr. Wilkins was unable to trace the names 
of the papers in which they appeared, and 
unfortunately my own collection furnishes 
no further information than that they ap¬ 
peared in American papers. 

The one entitled “Dickens’s Farewell to 
Hamerica” is accompanied by a set of 
verses, but no indication of its source is 
given. 

B. W. M. 


C117] 




‘IMPROVED” READINGS IN AMERICA. 

Rudolph (Dolby), his agent, commands, in advance, the American public to do rev¬ 
erence to Geisler’s [Boz’s] hat, previous to its being passed around to collect their cash 
The Flunkeys obey. William Tell — Bennett — and others resist. 


PLATE NUMBER XXII 







































































CHARLES [John Huffman] DICKENS’ 

The great Novelist appears in various characters, all, however, showing the 
same prolific “head” — Dickens, alias Pickwick, alias Copperfield, alias Sam 
"Weller, &c., &c. 


PLATE NUMBER XXIII 














CURIOUS EXPERIENCE OF MR. DICKENS AT DELMONICO’S, April 18 , 1868 . 
He listens to a Discourse trom-wis own Mr. Pickwick, or from Somebody very muck 

LIKE HIM. 


PLATE NUMBER XXIV 


















































































































DOLB7.—“ Well, Mr. Dickens, on the eve of our departure, I present you t pith $ 300 , 000 , the result of 
your Lectures in .America." 

dickens.— “ What! only $ 300,000 ? Is that all I have made out of these penurous Yankees, after 
ad my abuse of them f Pshaw! Li t us go, Dolby t" 


PLATE NUMBER XXV 





















PLATE NUMBER XXVI 


DICKENS S FAREWELL TO HAMERICA 












DICKENS’S FAREWELL TO 
HAMERICA! 


Farewell Columbia! Land of ears, 

Long purses, greenbacks and few gold; 

When late I hailed you, I confess to fears 
That you remembered stories I had told 
When twenty years ago I saw you first 
And looked upon you all a race accurst. 

Farewell Columbia! Land of soft delight; 

Your shores will soon be lost unto my sight, 

But I will carry to my latest day 
The sweet assurance of how well you pay. 
Forgiving land, my heart will fondly clasp 
Around your purse-strings while one throp can gasp. 
Land of the Free!—the free to pay; 

Free to shed tears, to shout and fawn; 

The free to scatter plaudits on my way; 

To dub me equal to the Avon swan. 

I hail you from the bottom of my purse. 

And beg your pardon for my former curse. 

Farewell, great editors of daily sheets — 

Once you were “BRICKS” on whom I poured 
my wrath, 

Vile as the slimy pavement of your streets; 

But now full roses blooming round my path. 
Your pens are blunted, writing in my praise, 
With not one scratch for “write of other days.” 

[n 9 ] 


Farewell, great audiences, whom Dolby sold, 

I ne’er will look upon your like again; 

To hear my trumpet you paid well in gold — 

The Field was mine, I part with it in pain; 

I hug remembrance of your spell-bound ears. 

And wet my handkerchief with paid-for tears. 

Farewell — a last farewell — great dinner-givers; 

Indeed you gave me all, you could no more; 
Yourselves the geese that furnished up the livers, 
’Twas all I left you of your former store. 

I plucked your feathers, but you kept your skin, 
Your meat was served up on the best of “tin.” 

Farewell, but when I see the British coast, 

My soul will turn in loving looks to thee; 

If not too sea-sick, I will drink a toast 
To that great land which is dear to me. 

Have I been dear to it? Perhaps I have, 

’Twas Dolby’s fault, who taught me how to shave. 

Delicious memories flit round my soul, 

Mixed with percentage, lost by changing “greens;” 
But let me drown my sorrows in the bowl, 

And quaff a stiff one to old pork and beans — 
Baked fish balls, liquor laws and nigger, 

That dear, big organ, too the thimble-rigger. 
Which plays so deftly, Dixie, or Doxology, 

Or any other kind of fifty cent theology. 


[ 120 ] 


Holmes of the free, farewell; your FIELDS are 
green, 

Though winter winds may howl around you 
thrilling, 

I well shall know that where my steps have been, 
You yet will try to pick up some stray shilling; 
Keep it when found, and wear it near your breast; 
And oh, forgive me that I took the rest! 

But ere I bid my last, yes last adieu, 

Dear JAMES draw nigh. I’ll whisper in your ear,— 
Are we well placed within the public view? 

See if this perspiration has the shape of tear. 

All right, lift up your arms, pitch forward if you 
can. 

Put that old beard of yours near to my nose, — 
Red, like my books. Steady, my man, 

I kiss you thus and thus; who knows 
But this dramatic ending of my travel 
May lift you brick-wise from the common gravel. 
You’ve been the best of publishers, God Bless you! 
I’ll write no more, but all my old editions 
You’ll print again, bound up in gold and blue, 
And if you fail with copyright petitions, 

(Don’t wince, my lad), just put on double prices, 
And though cute APPLETON may undersell, 

I have full confidence in your devices. 

Just tell your readers of our last farewell, 

Pile on the agony, dissect our tears. 

Have them in photograph, and for our kissing. 
Wreathe them in tulips, round your length of ears, 
And see if you’ll be among the missing. 


[ 121 ] 


* 


Now go, I’ve made my money, you a friend 
Who’ll love his JIMMY to his latter end. 

I hate to part, I loved you best to meet, 

But mark the last note of expiring cash 
Bids you begone. Dolby looks sweet. 

Then leave in time before he makes a dash. 

He has a habit first to smile, then grab — 

A human agent made up of soft crab. 

Now take this goblet brimming — not with wine; 
I give it freely, though it is not mine; 

But still my lips have pressed its hallowed rim; 
Like me, its inside now is dry and dim, 

Farewell, land of the Free! Farewell once more, 
Beloved fawns: your Lion leaves your shore! 


[ 122] 


NO THOROUGHFARE 


The story of No Thoroughfare written in 
collaboration by Charles Dickens and Wil¬ 
kie Collins comprised the Christmas number 
of All The Year Round for 1867. 

It was transformed into a play in five 
acts and a prologue, and was first performed 
at the New Royal Adelphi Theatre on the 
26th of December 1867. The cast included 
Charles Fechter (for whom the play was 
originally planned), Mr. and Mrs. Billing- 
ton, Mrs. Alfred Mellon, George Belmore, 
Benjamin Webster, Miss Carlotta Leclercq 
and others. 

It was a great success, running for one 
hundred and fifty nights, and was then 
transferred to the Standard Theatre, Shore¬ 
ditch. 

The Mask for February 1868, contained 
a parody of the whole play in eight acts, 
three of which are here reprinted. There 
was also a page of illustrations by H. Har- 
ral, one of which is reproduced here showing 
Dickens in the act of stabbing Walter 
Wilding with his pen, as described in Act 
III. B. W. M. 


[ 123] 
























































V 









“NO THOROUGHFARE” 

ACT I —UNDER THE PUMP 

“Oh my! oh dear!” said Walter Wilding, 
as he sat under the pump in Cripple Corner, 
while his legal adviser, Mr. Bintrey, vigor¬ 
ously pumped upon his head. — “I am a 
respectable wine merchant, and I have got 
a singing in my head, for which I take legal 
advice in the shape of pump water, ad¬ 
ministered externally, at the rate of six- 
and-eightpence a gallon. I was originally 
in the Foundling Hospital, that lucky bag 
of infants, and was pointed out one day 
to my late dear mother by a nurse in that 
establishment. My late dear mother, when 
she died, left me all her property in the 
wine trade, a comic cellarman named Joey 
Ladle, and a mysterious cellar, with blood- 
coloured fungi hanging from the roof. Oh 
my! oh dear! I want a family. I want 
everybody to be my family! Mr. Bintrey, 
you shall be my family, and Joey Ladle, 
and the clerks, and the policeman on the 
beat, shall all be my family, and we will 
all have dinner together every day, and 
then sing comic songs by Handel and Paddy 
Green. There goes the singing in my head 

C I2 5 1 


again! Let me see, what is it singing now?— 

My dear boys, my dear boys, 

He’s a pal o’ mine, he’s a pal o’ mine! 

Yes, that’s it, you are all pals of mine. I 
feel better, Mr. Bintrey, thank you. I feel 
my complexion is less pink and white, and 
my shirt front less starchy. I am sure 
there is no cure for singing in the head 
equal to being made wet through under a 
pump. Will you let me know what I owe 
you, Mr. Bintrey?” 

This to the lawyer, while the wine mer¬ 
chant was wringing the pump water out of 
the tails of his coat. Mr. Bintrey rushed 
into the counting-house, drank off a sample 
bottle of ’45 port he found on the mantle- 
piece, and made out his bill. It was as 
follows: — 


W. Wilding, Esq . 

To Mr. Bintrey. £. s. d. 

Attending you, advising you as to the ex¬ 
tension of your family and the institution 
of a Comic Song Club, and attending 

you to the pump,. 0134 

To pumping six gallons of water over you 

at 6s.8d. per gallon,.200 

Term fee,. 0130 


£364 


C126] 






“Come tomorrow, Mr. Bintrey,” said the 
merchant, as he paid the lawyer, “for I 
feel a presentiment that a stirring incident 
is about to take place in the next act.” 

ACT II —THE BELL RINGS 

The next morning Walter Wilding sat in 
his dining-room sneezing. He had an awful 
cold. He had advertised for a housekeeper. 
Six hundred had responded to the advertise¬ 
ment, and were now outside waiting to be 
engaged. The constant ringing of the bell, 
and the impatient rattle of the six hundred 
umbrellas, was music to the merchant’s 
ears. He began to think that he was already 
a family man. On the table before him 
were thirty-six photographs of his late dear 
mother. A woman entered — a tall bony 
woman, with corkscrew curls, a peaky nose, 
and a poky bonnet. 

“I’ve come for the place,” said the woman 
sharply. 

The merchant started; there was some¬ 
thing in the woman’s voice which made 
him think of water-gruel, pickled gherkins, 
and snuff. 


C127] 


He was affected accordingly. What was 
her name? 

“They calls me Sally,” said the woman, 
“seeing as how I married Goldstraw; but 
my maiden name was Betsy, well known as 
Prig — Betsy Prig, at your service, sir. 
My references is Mrs. Gamp, of Kingsgate 
Street, Holborn, and that dear respected 
woman, Mrs. Harris.” 

As she said this, the eye of Mrs. Gold- 
straw fell upon the photographs on the 
table. It instantly became riveted. 

“These are the photographic portraits of 
my late dear mother,” said the merchant, 
weeping, “taken by the Stereoscopic Com¬ 
pany at different periods of her life.” 

The reply was startling. “Your mother!” 
said Mrs. Goldstraw, striking the table with 
her umbrella. “Rubbish! No more your 
mother than my mother.” 

“Not my mother!” cried the merchant. 
“Then whose mother was she?” 

“Listen,” said Mrs. Goldstraw. “Shortly 
after I had that row with Mrs. Gamp, I 
was took on at the Foundling. One night, 
the original mother of that ’ere photograph 
asked me the name of the child she had 
left with us. I told her, ‘Walter Wilding.’ 

[128] 


That child was afterwards taken away by a 
lady as was not a mother, but wanted to 
be one by proxy. Another mother soon 
after this left another child. We didn’t 
know what to call him; but as the one that 
had been left by the first mother, and taken 
away by the mother by proxy, was called 
‘Walter Wilding,’ we naturally called the 
one that had been left by the second mother 
‘Walter Wilding’ also. The original mother 
then came and took the second child away. 
You was that second child; but your 
mother was not the original mother, but 
the second mother!” 

“This is awfully clear!” cried the mer¬ 
chant in hysterics. “Then my late dear 
mother was not my mother after all, but 
somebody else’s mother. Somebody else 
has got my mother, and I’ve got somebody 
else’s mother. This must be put right. I 
will send to Bintrey and be pumped upon!” 

ACT III — THE BED CURTAINS ARE 
DRAWN 

“Bintrey!” said Walter Wilding to the 
lawyer, after he had received a twelve-gallon 
dose under the pump and told him the 

C 129] 


nurse’s story, “ I feel myself a great crimi¬ 
nal. I feel that I have been in the enjoy¬ 
ment of somebody else’s rights. 

‘Who was it, that when I fell, 

Kissed the place to make it well? 

Somebody else’s Mother!’ 

I feel I have got somebody else’s wine 
business, somebody else’s comic cellarman, 
and somebody else’s mysterious cellar! I 
must make a will.” 

“Very good, Mr. Wilding,” said Mr. 
Bintrey. “This does you immense credit.” 

“ I wish to give to the somebody else who 
was the son of my late dear mother, the 
whole of the property. I shall appoint you 
and my new partner, George Vendale, the 
trustees, and if you don’t come across him 
in the period of two years, then it is all to 
go to the Brunswick Square Asylum for 
Mysterious Infants, with a view to the en¬ 
couragement of sensation-novel writing.” 

The will had been duly executed. The 
merchant had retired to rest, when the door 
of his bedroom was thrown violently open, 
and a man of middle age entered. He had 
a handsome face, with a somewhat grizzled 
beard. He was attired in travelling cos- 

[ 130] 


tume. His manner was hurried and deter¬ 
mined. He drew back the bed curtains. 

“Who are you?” said the startled mer¬ 
chant. 

“Who am I?” repeated the new-comer, 
in a deep mysterious voice, “I am the 
author of your being!” 

“Not my late dear mother?” said the 
merchant, involuntarily. 

“Not your late dear mother; but still 
the wretched creature who brought you into 
existence. What remorse, what anguish I 
have suffered since that moment, no tongue 
can tell, no pen describe. My name is 
Dickens!” 

The merchant trembled. 

“I had thought and hoped to have 
worked you up into something interesting, 
or at least amusing. You have deceived me 
fearfully. It is my own and my partner 
Wilkie Collins’s wish that you should be 
put out of the way, that — you should die!” 

“Die!” exclaimed the merchant. “You 
would not kill me?” 

“Kill you? Ay, that I would. I have 
killed far better, nobler creatures than you. 
Notably, did I kill little Paul Dombey. 
Similarly, did I kill little Nell. Besides, I 

[131] 


am going to America to give readings. 
Collins cannot manage you. You are 
neither comic nor sentimental. You must 
be got rid of!” 

In vain the merchant pleaded for a little 
grace, in vain he sought to stay the fatal 
blow by promising he would endeavour to 
be more comic for the future: his assailant 
was deaf to pity. Seizing a gigantic pen, 
he struck poor Wilding to the heart, and 
rushing from the room, escaped into the 
street. 

The last words uttered by the merchant 
were, “Oh Dicky Wilkins! Dicky Wilkins! 
what have I done to deserve this?” And 
so he died. 

From The Mask (London), February, 1868 


C132] 


PLATE XXVIII 

“NO THOROUGHFARE” IN FRANCE 

The play of No Thoroughfare was trans¬ 
lated into French, and in June 1868, 
Dickens went over to Paris to superintend 
the rehearsals. It was called “L/Abime” 
and was performed at the Vaudeville 
Theatre, where it was as big a success as 
the English version in London. 

The article accompanying this reproduc¬ 
tion appeared in The Mask for July 1868, 
with a full-page illustration comprising 
caricatures of different celebrities who had 
either visited London or Paris, amongst 
which was this one of Dickens drawn by 
H. Harrall. 

B. W. M. 


c 133] 




















1 


t ( 


f 






I 



















A 


' 








I 


BO z 







INTERNATIONAL COMPLIMENTS 

Certainly the French and English ought 
to begin to know each other better, for 
every day sees an exchange of nationalities 
of one tendency or another. And during 
this last month of June several grand days 
of international compliments are to be 
marked with white stones either to the 
London or Paris account. 

There has been a kind of national ecarte 
going on and it is difficult to say which side 
wins, for though no one seems to have 
marked the King, Paris has played her 
Grand Duchess on Monday, the 22nd of 
June, with immense success, and London 
scored a large account with the Earl at the 
Grand Prix. We sent over our Charles 
Dickens, to which our neighbors reply with 
Gustave Dore, who is now as well known 
for his illustrations as our novelist is for 
his works of fiction. But France is not the 
only nation with which compliments have 
been exchanged; England sends Prince 
Alfred to Australia, and the colonies send 
Dick-a-Dick and his black brethren over 
here to learn cricket and to teach us the 
use of the boomerang; while Circassia 

[135] 


sends us lily-water for the use of Madam 
Rachel’s customers, who we sincerely hope 
will ere long send that inestimable Jewess 
to Jericho, where we might leave her to die 
in peace. 

The first card played was the drama of 
No Thoroughfare , already so well known 
through the energies of the Adelphi troupe. 

It would have been difficult to translate 
the title (which with us is merely a piece 
of claptrap, without any real signification 
bearing on the interests or denouement of 
the plot) into Entree Interdite or Cul-De- 
Sac, so the more attractive word Abime 
was selected, and L 9 Abime [meaning the 
Abyss] has been taken by some writers on 
both sides of the Channel to mean No 
Thoroughfare . The French have seen, and 
acknowledge, the weakness of the drama, 
but the acting of Burton has been so excel¬ 
lent in the part of Reichenbach (Oben- 
reizer), that the success of the Abyss in 
France has been as great as that of No 
Thoroughfare at the Adelphi. 

Burton, well known to all Paris playgoers 
for his ease and artistic elegance, is as far 
superior to Fechter as that gentleman is to 
our own melodramatic actors, and we all 

C136] 


know the reputation his Hamlet has made 
for him in England. But for Charles 
Dickens the success has been a Succes D’es- 
time. Most of Dickens’s works have been 
translated into French, and are admired, 
in many instances, as much as in England. 
For his pure pathos, and for those touches 
of nature which make a whole world kin, 
he has his unaffected lovers and devotees 
throughout Europe, and consequently all 
the Paris press has shown itself eager to do 
homage to the genius of Dickens. The 
journalists of the boulevards have used 
the Abyss as an excuse. It is not the drama 
which has elicited eulogy; it is the genius 
of Dickens, shown in The Old Curiosity 
Shop , Chuzzlewit, The Carols , Nickleby , 
Oliver 7 wist , and a host of others. 

From The Mask , July, 1868 


C137] 


PLATE NUMBER XXIX 
CHARLES DICKENS 
Caricature by Andre Gill 

From a colored engraving 
in L f Eclipse (Paris), 14th June, 1868 


[138] 















CHARLES DICKENS 
By Ernest D’Hervilly 

Dickens! Here is a name I write as I 
would write the adored name of an exquisite 
mistress, — with trembling hand, with ec¬ 
static beating of the heart, with soul intoxi¬ 
cated, elated; with infinite vistas of charm¬ 
ing dreams before my eyes. 

Oh my well beloved Dickens! How 
pleasant it is for me; how full of delight is 
this task which has fallen to my lot — the 
task of introducing to the intelligent readers 
of the Eclipse, in a few words, all too brief, 
the man whose portrait honors the first 
page of this journal! 

Among my elders and masters, those 
fathers of my soul, many have my profound 
admiration and my deep and abiding friend¬ 
ship, but never was a writer venerated by 
me so filially as you, dear stranger! You 
have my deepest love! 

There are not two ways of loving Dickens, 
for the reader either loves him passionately, 
or is utterly bored. 

Let us be thankful that the number of 
people who after having skimmed over 

[ 139] 


thirty pages of a book by the author of 
David Copperfield or Christmas Tales can 
go no further, but must throw the book 
down in disgust, is indeed very limited, and 
we must not judge them too severely. If 
they could but know how these stories of 
Dickens awaken in the heart one’s dormant 
sympathies! If they could appreciate the 
kindlier feeling such reading inspires, the 
disposition to find and to search for the 
good and lovable traits of our fellowmen 
and of life, they would indeed repent; they 
would indeed regret their former scorn of 
these gentle emotions. 

Happily, those who read — who I might 
say live the romance of Dickens, making 
themselves companions of his heroes, suffer¬ 
ing, laughing, hoping, living with them — 
have become a goodly number in France, 
and this number is growing day by day. 

It is indeed pleasant to escape for an 
hour from our everyday life with its cares 
and struggles, and passing by for the time 
being those distressing pictures of life which 
some of our highly talented French authors 
have painted, to devote this happy hour to 
the lovable books of Dickens, which make 
us believe in and recall the days of our 

[ mo] 


youth, and which remind us of our universal 
brotherhood. 

The poet’s message is to the soul; and 
Dickens, kindly poet, has not failed in his 
mission. His profound and sincere love of 
suffering humanity, of all unfortunates, 
shines forth conspicuously in his work, from 
one end to the other. Read Bleak House; 
read Nicholas Nickleby; read Old Curiosity 
Shop; read Little Dorrit; read Hard Times , 
and you will feel an irresistible pity en¬ 
veloping you; you will understand what 
divine consolation these books, eagerly 
awaited in England, have brought to des¬ 
perate, sin-sick hearts, and why he has 
gained the love and regard of the people, 
this author, who consecrates his talent by 
bringing home to the disdainful, indifferent 
classes, the inexpressible misery that, not 
ten steps from their sumptuous palaces, 
passes in tatters and sheds its bitter tears. 

But to my great regret I am forced to 
cut short this role which is so dear to me; 
I will conclude with some brief and incom¬ 
plete biographical sketches. 

In England, they do not print very much 
of the private life of a public man. It is 
not the fashion. 


[ 141 ] 


Furthermore, as Dickens intends to write 
his own autobiography, there is little to 
draw from except what one may guess of 
the beginnings of this great and charming 
soul from reading his books; and the Eng¬ 
lish journalists can tell us little more than 
we already know ourselves. 

In brief, Charles Dickens was born at 
Portsmouth on the 7th of February 1812. 
In several boarding houses at Chatham and 
Rochester he experienced the hard life of a 
child separated from his parents. 1 Then he 
led a very adventurous existence, but 
fruitful for the future writer, in pursuing 
the study of law, to which the paternal 
will had decreed him for ten years. 

Dickens, like Shakespeare, composed and 
took part in several theatrical pieces during 
this period. He joined by choice and by 
force of circumstances, a nomadic troupe 
which he later described so graphically in 
Nicholas Nickleby . 

Still later, returning to London, he be¬ 
came a stenographer and by his study and 
skill simplified the existing stenography and 

1 This statement is a little misleading, as Dickens always 
lived with his parents in his early days, except when they 
were in the Marshalsea Prison. There is no record that he 
ever lived in Rochester. — B. W. M. 

[ 142] 


became one of the best reporters on the 
English papers. It was upon the True Sun , 
then on the “Mirror of Parliament,” that 
he made his debut first as stenographer, 
then as writer. 

His Sketches of English Life, marvellously 
exact, which appeared in the Morning 
Chronicle and which he modestly signed 
“Boz” were remarkably lifelike. Cruik- 
shank illustrated them. They have not 
been translated into French. 

After this appeared The Posthumous 
Papers of the Club of Pickwickians (Mr. 
Pickwick). These were greeted with a 
storm of laughter. The book had a colossal 
success; edition followed edition rapidly. 

From this moment Charles Dickens, 
giving up stenography completely, devoted 
himself entirely to his life work. His repu¬ 
tation having been established, fortune no 
longer derided him, and the great romancer, 
married shortly before this time, began at 
once to furnish without interruption of the 
public, the new works which were so im¬ 
patiently awaited. 

Thirty years have passed; Dickens still 
writes, inexhaustible, and always the same, 
and the enthusiasm for his writings has 

[ 143] 


never grown cold. He is loved more than 
ever. With his son-in-law, Wilkie Collins , 1 
the author of that wonderful romance, The 
Woman in White , he publishes now in a 
journal of his own, All the Year Round , 
everything that comes from his pen. 

And the most gracious gift that one 
can make at Christmas-time, is one of his 
elegantly reproduced novels. 

Long life to Charles Dickens! Such is the 
most ardent wish that I have at this mo¬ 
ment, and which I send to him from the 
bottom of my heart. 

From L’Eclipse (Paris), 14th June, 1868 

1 Wilkie Collins was not a son-in-law of Dickens; it was 
his brother, Charles Alston Collins, who married Dickens’s 
daughter Kate. — B. W. M. 




[ 144] 


PLATE NUMBER XXX 

CHARLES DICKENS RAISING 
GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

Drawn by Thomas Nast 

“You just keep still and PII do all the 
blowing for you. I know ’ow to ’umbug 
these blasted Yankees, as Pve done it 
before.” 

From The Evening Telegraph 
(New York), 1869 

Inspired by the article “On Mr. Fechter’s 
Acting,” in The Atlantic Monthly , August, 
1869. See page 147; also Plate LI, at 
page 221. 


[ 145] 












































ON MR. FECHTER’S ACTING 


BY 

CHARLES DICKENS 

The distinguished artist whose name is 
prefixed to these remarks purposes leav¬ 
ing England for a professional tour in the 
United States. A few words from me in 
reference to his merits as an actor I hope 
may not be uninteresting to some readers, 
in advance of his publicly proving them 
before an American audience, and I know 
will not be unacceptable to my intimate 
friend. I state at once that Mr. Fechter 
holds that relation towards me; not only 
because it is the fact, but also because our 
friendship originated in my public apprecia¬ 
tion of him. I had studied his acting 
closely, and had admired it highly, both in 
Paris and in London, years before we ex¬ 
changed a word. Consequently my ap¬ 
preciation is not the result of personal re¬ 
gard, but personal regard has sprung out 
of my appreciation. 

The first quality observable in Mr. Fech- 
ter’s acting is, that it is in the highest degree 
romantic. However elaborated in minute 
details, there is always a peculiar dash and 

[ 147] 


vigor in it, like the fresh atmosphere of the 
story whereof it is a part. When he is on 
the stage it seems to me as though the 
story were transpiring before me for the 
first and last time. Thus there is a fervor 
in his love-making — a suffusion of his 
whole being with the rapture of his passion 
— that sheds a glory on its object and 
raises her, before the eyes of the audience, 
into the light in which he sees her. It was 
this remarkable power that took Paris by 
storm when he became famous in the lover’s 
part in the Dame Aux Camelias. It is a 
short part, really comprised in two scenes, 
but as he acted it (he was its original repre¬ 
sentative), it left its poetic and exalting in¬ 
fluence on the heroine throughout the play. 
A woman who could be so loved — who 
could be so devotedly and romantically 
adored — had a hold upon the general 
sympathy with which nothing less absorbing 
and complete could have invested her. 
When I first saw this play and its actor I 
could not, in forming my lenient judgment 
of the heroine, forget that she had been the 
inspiration of a passion of which I had be¬ 
held such profound and affecting marks. 
I said to myself, as a child might have said, 

[ 148] 


“A bad woman could not have been the 
object of that wonderful tenderness, could 
not have so subdued that worshipping 
heart, could not have drawn such tears 
from such a lover.” I am persuaded that 
the same effect was wrought upon the 
Parisian audiences, both consciously and 
unconsciously, to a very great extent, and 
that what was morally disagreeable in the 
Dame Aux Camelias first got lost in this 
brilliant halo of romance. I have seen the 
same play with the same part otherwise 
acted, and in exact degrees as the love be¬ 
came dull and earthy, the heroine descended 
from her pedestal. 

Picturesqueness is a quality above all 
others pervading Mr. Fechter’s assump¬ 
tions. Himself a skilled painter and sculp¬ 
tor, learned in the history of costume, and 
informing those accomplishments and that 
knowledge with a similar infusion of ro¬ 
mance (for romance is inseparable from the 
man), he is always a picture, — always a 
picture in its right place in the group, al¬ 
ways in true composition with the back¬ 
ground of the scene. For picturesqueness 
of manner, note as trivial a thing as the 
turn of his hand in beckoning from a win- 

C149] 


dow, in Ruy Bias, to a personage down in 
an outer courtyard to come up; or his as¬ 
sumption of the Duke’s livery in the same 
scene; or his writing a letter from dictation. 
In the last scene of Victor Hugo’s noble 
drama, his bearing becomes positively in¬ 
spired; and his sudden assumption of the 
attitude of the headsman, in his denuncia¬ 
tion of the Duke and threat to be his execu¬ 
tioner is, so far as I know, one of the most 
ferociously picturesque things conceivable 
on the stage. 

The foregoing use of the word “fero¬ 
ciously” reminds me to remark that this 
artist is a master of passionate vehemence; 
in which aspect he appears to me to repre¬ 
sent, perhaps more than in any other, an 
interesting union of characteristics of two 
great nations, — the French and the Anglo- 
Saxon. Born in London of a French mother, 
by a German father, but reared entirely in 
England and in France, there is, in his fury, 
a combination of French suddenness and 
impressibility with our more slowly demon¬ 
strative Anglo-Saxon way when we get, as 
we say, “our blood up,” that produces an 
intensely fiery result. The fusion of two 
races is in it, and one cannot decidedly say 
[ 150] 


that it belongs to either; but one can most 
decidedly say that it belongs to a powerful 
concentration of human passion and emo¬ 
tion, and to human nature. 

Mr. Fechter has been in the main more 
accustomed to speak French than to speak 
English, and therefore he speaks our lan¬ 
guage with a French accent. But whoso¬ 
ever should suppose that he does not speak 
English fluently, plainly, distinctly, and 
with a perfect understanding of the mean¬ 
ing, weight, and value of every word, would 
be greatly mistaken. Not only is his knowl¬ 
edge of English — extending to the most 
subtle idiom, or the most recondite cant 
phrase — more extensive than that of many 
of us who have English for our mother- 
tongue, but his delivery of Shakespeare’s 
blank verse is remarkably facile, musical, 
and intelligent. To be in a sort of pain for 
him, as one sometimes is for a foreigner 
speaking English, or to be in any doubt of 
his having twenty synonyms at his tongue’s 
end if he should want one, is out of the 
question after having been of his audience. 

From The Atlantic Monthly , August, 1869 


C151 ] 


PLATE NUMBER XXXI 

CHARLES DICKENS 

From a tinted engraving drawn by Alfred 
Thompson 

From The Period (London), 

13th November, 1869 


[ 152] 




















PEOPLE OF “THE PERIOD” 
CHARLES DICKENS 

When the writer of this notice was quite 
a little boy — never mind how long ago — 
but it was at a period when Charles Dickens 
had already written Pickwick and Oliver 
Twisty Nicholas Nickleby and Sketches by 
BoZy Old Curiosity Shop and Barnaby Rudge 
— he had an ancient female relative who 
enjoyed high consideration in the family 
circle and among a select number of ac¬ 
quaintances, as a lady of most refined liter¬ 
ary taste and the most exquisite intellectual 
acumen. She had been on intimate terms 
with the great Hannah More; had once 
taken a dish with Mrs. Barbauld; and it 
was even rumored that in her youth she 
had looked with sympathizing eyes on Mr. 
Hayley, author of The Triumphs of Temper. 
From this lady’s literary verdicts there was 
no appeal. When she had once pronounced 
a sentence we were all fain to be mute; 
and we suppose it was owing to the great 
awe with which she inspired us that to this 
day we have never read three pages of 
Shelley; for she was accustomed to say, 
“Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley was one of the 

C 153] 


most deplorable of persons, and his poems 
are poison.” Through a similar belief in 
the infallibility of her judgment, did we 
read, to our sorrow, from beginning to end, 
the works of Monsieur de Chateaubriand, 
and can recall, even now, with disagreeable 
minuteness the long-winded paragraphs of 
that dreary sentimentalist. Still, like most 
boys of the last generation, we went mad 
after Dickens. We played at Pickwick, we 
blubbered over the sorrows of Oliver and 
Nancy, loathed Fagin, shuddered at Bill 
Sikes, and adored Mr. Brownlow. As for 
little Nell, and Kit, and the man who 
watched the furnace fire, and Dick Swivel- 
Ier, and the marchioness; as for Barnaby 
and Barnaby’s raven, and honest Joe Wil¬ 
lett, and the darling little Dolly Varden, 
we talked about them, sang about them, 
drew pictures of them — pictures which 
would have somewhat astonished Mr. Hab- 
Iot Browne — all day long. Now, our dear 
old female relative — rest her bones! — was 
not proof against Charles Dickens. He 
would find out the joints in her critical 
armour, he could tickle her into ringing 
laughter, or melt her into passionate tears. 
But she would recover herself; she would 

C154] 


vindicate her character for mental austerity: 
had she not sat at the feet of Hannah 
More, and partaken of Bohea with Mrs. 
Barbauld? “My dear,” she would remark, 
“Boz (than which, I am sure, there was 
never a more ridiculous name) is a clever 
man, — a very clever man, — and has done 
wonders, although in a style of which I 
cannot entirely approve. But he has over¬ 
worked himself — he has * written himself 
out. Mark my words , my dear, Boz has 
written himself out." 

My good old kinswoman preferred this 
opinion, not malevolently, but simply be¬ 
cause she could not realize the possibility 
of an author who had achieved so many 
triumphs before he was thirty years of age, 
continuing to enchant millions of readers 
until he was nearly sixty. But there were 
other persons, more than a generation since, 
who did malevolently declare that “ Boz had 
written himself out,” and who wished that 
he had, and hoped that he would — and 
that speedily. “Censure,” says Dean Swift, 
“is a tax which a man pays to the world for 
being eminent.” There are a great many 
more imports which the eminent literary 
man has to pay to his kind friends, the 

[ 155] 


public. One tax-gatherer’s name is Envy; 
his brother assessors are Hatred, Malice, 
and all uncharitableness. A rogue thunders 
at the door, and shouts, “I am Lying Slan¬ 
der; pay me!” Another rings the bell 
fiercely and yells, “I am Domestic Espion¬ 
age; I am Foreign Eaves-dropping; you’ll 
pay me, I guess.” And the eminent man 
must pay, willy-nilly; for the tax-gatherers 
will distrain on his goods, and seize the hat 
from his head and the coat from his back; 
a crowd of bookselling pirates, “own corre¬ 
spondents,” hack dramatists and hireling 
photographers looking on approvingly. 

And here is Charles Dickens, not very far 
from three-score, and still, for all the pro¬ 
digious amount of work he has gone through 
— body work, brain work, hand work, foot 
work — for in pedestrianism he has rivalled 
Deerfoot and Captain Patten Saunders — 
a hale, bright, valid man. His recent speech 
at Birmingham tells us so. A little before 
that, as we all know, he was forced to 
break off for a while in his course of read¬ 
ings;— readings which are to be resumed 
early in the New Year. The man was mani¬ 
festly tired out, tired to death’s door — 
tired of having to keep with rigid punctual- 

[ 156] 


ity appointments at five hundred miles dis¬ 
tance from each other; tired of discounting 
the future, and knowing with grim certainty 
what he was going to do, or at least was 
expected to do, in the middle of next month; 
tired of express trains and hotel dinners, and 
saying the same thing night after night, and 
seeing the same sea of eager upturned faces; 
tired of gas and waiters, and money-takers, 
and rounds of applause, and neat criticisms 
in provincial newspapers. He would rest. 
His doctors told him that he must take it, 
and he took it. Depend upon it, that the 
tax-gatherers rubbed their hands gleefully 
when they heard that Charles Dickens had 
been forced to pause for awhile. There is 
one collector whom we have not yet named 

— the man who calls for that tax called 
“Hypocritical Commiseration.” It is a 
commutation of the old Spite, Malice, and 
Impatience at continuous success duties. 
“Ah! poor fellow,” sighed the commisera- 
tors; “broken down — quite broken down 

— sinking by the head. The pitcher goes 
often to the well, but gets broken at last. 
He will never be himself again. A clear 
case of physical collapse, the sure forerunner 
of mental decay. Sick body, sick brain! 

[ 157] 


You know we always thought he would 
overdo it at last.” And so, from decade to 
decade, does one generation of affable vipers 
succeed another; and we dare say there 
were good souls in Shakespeare’s time who 
confidently imparted to one another their 
conviction that Mr. S. was really working 
the mine of his brain too freely, that he was 
writing himself out, and that this kind of 
thing could not last long, you know. 

The answer of Charles Dickens to his de¬ 
tractors and commiserators has been, his 
whole life long, hard work; and it is not 
for the world, and not for him, but for the 
Dispenser of all events, to determine when, 
his work being done, he shall lay down 
spade and trowel and sing the canticle of 
Simeon, and say, with St. Paul, that he has 
fought the good fight. It is probable that, 
gauging his literary productions only as so 
much printed matter, there have been 
authors who, in a career of letters of equal 
length to his, have produced more “copy.” 
Rousseau wrote more; Dry den wrote more; 
Diderot wrote more; William Godwin wrote 
more; G. P. R. James wrote more; Lord 
Lytton has written more; Anthony Trol¬ 
lope has written more; Charles Lever has 
[ 158] 


written as much. As an author Charles 
Dickens has been famous for about four- 
and-thirty years; and certainly he has not 
written four-and-thirty novels. Beyond his 
works of fiction his only literary productions 
have been the Sketches by Boz , the American 
Notes , the Pictures from Italy , a few essays 
in the Daily News , and a number of papers 
in Household Words, and All the Year Round . 
Stay, — there was also the Child's History 
of England and one or two dramatic pieces. 
Charles Lamb used humourously to say 
that his own genuine “works” were en¬ 
tombed in the bulky day-books and ledgers 
of the India House. Similarly the great 
bulk of Charles Dickens’s “copy” may be 
lying perdu in the shorthand notes he took 
and transcribed when he was a reporter in 
the gallery of the House of Commons. But 
mere manifest production weighs very little 
in the scale by which a man’s work should 
be tested. The idlest men have often been 
the most prolific producers. There was 
no end to George Morland’s pictures. 
Rafaelle is said to have lacked industry; 
yet Rafaelle, who died before he was forty, 
has left far more on record, in the way of 
quantity, than Michael Angelo, who lived 

C159] 


to be nearly ninety, and worked like a day- 
labourer to the last of his life. In the 
“Horned Moses” there is a whole gallery 
of sculpture. In David Copper field may 
there not be said to be an entire library of 
fiction? Surely art is not to be measured 
by line and rule, and ticked off per inch. 
If this were the case, the brick wall of 
Whitechapel Workhouse would bear away 
the ball from the Banqueting House at 
Whitehall, and Mr. Sandy’s “Medea” 
would have to yield the palm to Venvard’s 
Panorama of the Mississippi. Apart from 
his literary labours, which in the result 
have been tremendous, Charles Dickens 
has worked continuously, earnestly, sedu¬ 
lously, unflinchingly, from the first dawn of 
his adolescence to this the golden autumn 
of his age. Never has there been a busier 
man, in the best sense of the term; never 
one who was so fully aware that the power 
of genius and all the fertility of imagination 
cannot compensate for the lack of applica¬ 
tion and for the want of punctuality. 

It has been said, and trivially said, that 
the history of an author’s life is simply the 
history of his works. The history of the 
life of any man of great intellectual powers, 
[160] 


were it fully narrated, would be more in¬ 
teresting perhaps than anything that had 
ever flowed from his pen. It has been said, 
and with not much more truth, that the 
incidents in the career of a writer of fiction 
may be derived, with tolerable accuracy, 
from the scenes and the characters he has 
depicted in his works. Sottises! If this 
were the case, Anthony Trollope must have 
gone through a triple process of metempsy¬ 
chosis, and have been a bishop’s wife, a 
sentimental young lady, and an Irish mem¬ 
ber of Parliament; while Lord Lytton must 
have been all kinds of dreadful things, and 
have done all kinds of dreadful things, — 
robbed on the highway with Paul Clifford, 
murdered barbers in order to buy Greek 
books with Eugene Arum, dwelt on the 
threshold with Zanoni, and poisoned the 
members of respectable families with Lu- 
cretia. As for Charles Dickens, he must 
have filled as many characters as Woodin 
or Mascabe assumes. He must have shaken, 
as the Parish boy Oliver, under Mr. Bum¬ 
ble’s cane; and have picked out the marks 
from pocket-handkerchiefs under the tute¬ 
lage of Mr. Fagin. As David Copperfield, 
he must have been a wine-merchant’s 

[161] 


drudge and articled pupil to a proctor in 
Doctor’s Commons. As Little Nell, he 
must have travelled with a Punch-and- 
Judy, and acted as Cicerone to Mrs. Jarley’s 
waxwork show. He must have Iain in the 
Fleet as Mr. Pickwick, and in the Marshal- 
sea as Mr. Dorrit; he must have given up 
the ghost as Little Paul, as Jo, as Lady 
Dedlock. He must have been buried in the 
ruins of a falling house, and blown up by 
spontaneous combustion; he must have 
come to life again and sung Bacchanalian 
songs as Dick Swiveller, and peeped through 
the keyhole as the Marchioness, and danced 
demonic dances as Quilp. He must have 
been in the riots of ’80, and in the wreck 
of the Golden Mary. He must have been 
one of the Seven Poor Travellers, and 
Doctor Marigold, and the Boots at The 
Holly-tree Inn, and Mr. Chops the dwarf. 

He has been, in reality, nothing whatever 
of the kind. He has been, all his life, 
Charles Dickens — a prose poet of wonder¬ 
ful genius; a writer of most vivid imagina¬ 
tion, of extraordinary powers of wit, humor, 
pathos, and eloquence; an observer of un¬ 
equalled shrewdness and minuteness, and 
an unwearied cultivator of the inestimable 
[ 162] 


faculty of Attention, which faculty may be 
popularly defined as the power of minding 
our own business. It has been Charles 
Dickens’s business to bestow unflagging 
attention on the discipline and conduct of 
the abilities bestowed on him by God, and 
to make them fructify; and he has suc¬ 
ceeded in his task, to the delight and to the 
amelioration of mankind. 


TO CHARLES DICKENS 

O Great Enchanter, never was there writer 
Wielded a pen more powerful before; 

No sway more potent knows the priestly mitre 
On crown that earthly monarch ever wore. 

The Church may rule a creed — Faith’s stern 
opinion, 

The Monarch multitudes in camp or mart; 

Yet there’s a prouder and more dear dominion, 
Illimitable empire o’er the heart. 

How shall we thank thee for the hours beguiling — 
The genius that has brightened all the years, 
The wit that tempts a sad heart into smiling, 
The pathos that makes laughter end in tears? 

Vain were the task to tell of thy creations, 

Those “Household Words” till England’s latest 
day; 


[163] 


The wealth of fancy that is now the nation’s — 

A heritage that cannot pass away. 

When thy soul seeks its everlasting haven, 

When England and her best-loved author part, 
Thy name for evermore will be engraven. 

Like Mary’s “Calais” upon England’s heart. 

From The Period (London), 13th November, 1869 


[164] 


PLATE NUMBER XXXII 
THE NEWSVENDERS’ DINNER 
Charles Dickens in the center 
Drawn by W. Brunton 
From Fun (London), 23rd April, 1870 


[i6 5 ] 





















































































» 































THE NEWSVENDERS’ DINNER 
By our Special Diner-out 

As if people with any decent gratitude 
about them would not go to such a din¬ 
ner, even if Charles Dickens were not in 
the chair! Furthermore, ladies can dine. 
Whereupon one insists at once upon going 
and getting “all the world and his wife” 
to go too, so far as one’s acquaintance with 
the individual goes. 

Dinner at six precisely. That means, at 
Freemason’s Hall, a quarter past seven to 
sit down to table, and about eight to get 
one’s dinner. But after all, the dinner, 
luckily, and perhaps the wine too, luckily, 
are not things one comes to a dinner of 
this kind for. Nevertheless that cham¬ 
pagne— but no matter! The chairman is on 
his legs. A little too brief— but he would 
be that for most of us, if he talked by the 
hour. Music, and another brevity from 
the chairman. And then he brightens up 
a bit, and chaffs “The Army, Navy, and 
Volunteers” pleasantly. Next he commits 
— oh, yes, he does, I grieve to say — he 
commits the mistake as ex-officio host, of 
chaffing too severely the Corporation of 
c 167] 


London, when he has to propose that toast. 
It is a very excellent body, after all. Not 
perfect, after the invariable fashion of 
human institutions, but it does a good deal 
of real good work. 

Never mind, however! Alderman Cotton 
has to respond to the toast, and the op¬ 
ponent of Cotton is generally Worsted. It 
is a fair counter, and the chairman very 
properly recognizes and respects it. 

So, after the sheriffs have had due 
honour, we come to “The Toast” — 

PROSPERITY TO THE NEWSVENDERS AND 
PROVIDENT INSTITUTION 

And now Charles Dickens is the Charles 
Dickens, and those of us who availed our¬ 
selves of the good sense of the Institution 
to bring our womankind to see Charles 
Dickens “at home,” feel that we have not 
brought them in vain. I don’t know how 
it reads, but I know how it “spoke,” and 
I am sure it delighted those who heard it — 
and what can a speech do more? 

After this either the toastmaster or I got 
into a fog. I fancied before that toasts had 
slipped out of the programme. Now I am 
[168] 


sure they did, and much of the music set 
down in the programme was omitted, and 
the arrangements got “mixed.” But there 
were one or two good speeches, and — what 
was more satisfactory — a good list of sub¬ 
scriptions to an admirable institution. 

I don’t know that I have anything to 
add, save my advice to the indefatigable 
secretary of the Newsvenders, Mr. Walter 
Jones, that next year it would be well for 
the sake of variety, if for no other reason, 
to have the dinner at some other tavern 
than the Freemason’s Hall. Mr. Dickens, 
the President of the Institution, hints at 
retiring from active duty, and when the 
attraction of his name is wanting, the very 
worthy cause must be well supported still. 
A more strict attention to the authorized 
list of toasts and songs might be advisable 
on the part of the toastmaster. 

But it really needs little to raise the News- 
venders’ Dinner to the position we should 
like to see it occupy, — that of one of the 
most popular gatherings of the season, to 
which the ladies gratefully say “Aye!” 

From Fun (London), 23d April, 1870 


[169] 


PLATE NUMBER XXXIII 

CHARLES DICKENS 

From a drawing by Poulton, 
issued as a Supplement to 

The Hornet (London), 15th June, 1870 


c 170] 







\ ' 

1 1 M 

iiii'LAi 

I i JTni 


































CHARLES DICKENS 


The great king of fiction is dead! The 
mighty intellect that bred ten thousand 
pleasant fancies, the wondrous power that 
moved men’s hearts to joy or grief, and led 
the world captive, with a garland, through 
sunny glades of song and story, is still. 
Charles Dickens is at rest. Let those who 
have shed a tear for Little Nell, who have 
wept when Paul Dombey died, and have 
felt the awful solemnity of that darkened 
room where Agnes told the death of Little 
Blossom, drop a tear for him who never 
yet did ask our tears in vain. 

Let us turn from the pages of his mirth, 
checked in our laughter by the solemn 
sudden voice that called him hence; and, 
in all that meekness and gentleness he loved, 
listen for the “beautiful music which she 
said was in the air,” and which — who 
knows? — may sound a triumphant note 
for him — a note of sadness for us all. 
“Oh! it is hard to take to heart the lesson 
such deaths will teach, but let no man 
reject it, for it is one that all must learn, 

[ 171 1 


and is a mighty and universal truth. . . . 
Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed 
on such green graves some good is born, 
some gentle nature. ... In the Destroy¬ 
er’s steps there spring up bright creations 
that defy this power, and his dark path 
becomes a way of light to heaven.” 

Farewell, Dickens! Thy pen has dropped 
on the unfinished page; but so long as the 
world shall live, so shall thy memory be 
always in the blossom, smiling in the sun¬ 
shine, tenderly weeping with the dew. 
Men’s hearts and lips shall utter thy 
praises, nations shall never cease to wonder 
at thy greatness. 

It was gentle Cowper who said: — 

’Twere well with most, if books that did engage 
Their childhood, pleased them at a riper age, 

The man approving what had charmed the boy. 

Dickens for all ages and all minds, the 
humblest most. He knew and swept the 
chords of every heart with the skill of a 
consummate minstrel, now with love song, 
now with dance, now with dirge, and ever 
tenderly and gracefully. His works are a 
delightful world of fancy, where every cre¬ 
ation has seeming life and reality. Pick- 

C172] 


wick, Weller, Pecksniff, Tom Pinch, Squeers, 
Captain Cuttle, Mrs. Gamp, Dombey, 
Bumble, Kit, Barnaby Rudge, Peggotty, 
and Marchioness, all live and breathe, and 
the poorest hind can number them amongst 
his acquaintances. Pickwick is no mere 
thought in ink on paper — the most literal 
mind cannot bring itself to the belief. He 
is flesh and blood, and we laugh with him, 
sympathise with him, philosophise with 
him, as though we met his beaming face 
every morning at our door. He is but a 
type of the rest, and of a glorious company 
of life and poetry — Dickens’s priceless 
legacy to the world. 

Peace to him. Bear with him gently, 
wipe the tear away, then turn we again to 
his page, and count our treasures wisely. 

From The Hornet (London), 15th June, 1870 


C173] 


PLATE NUMBER XXXIV 
THE EMPTY CHAIR 
From Judy (London), 22nd June, 1870 


C174] 




























































CHARLES DICKENS 


Born 7TH February, 1812 
Died 9TH June, 1870 

Who has not own’d the magic of his skill 
Who thrill’d us with fictitious joy and woe? 
Raised, in a moment, laughter at his will. 

Or caused the sympathetic tear to flow? 

And must the brain that plann’d — the hand that 
penn’d — 

Lie nerveless from henceforth, mere dust and 
clay? 

Must all the glory of a lifetime end 
When from the earth the spirit wings its way? 
Not so with him we mourn. His fancy flows 
Fresh as when first he charm’d us with his art; 
He made a world, and peopled it with those 
Who live in our remembrance and our heart. 
Let England, then, her grieving tribute lend. 

The Nation mourns him as the Nation’s friend. 

From Judy (London), 22nd June, 1870 


C175] 


DICKENS, THE GREAT MAGICIAN 

The man whom, of all others, we could 
least afford to spare, has been taken from 
amongst us. Before he had entered upon 
the evening of his life, and while his days 
had not passed well-ripened maturity, 
Death is written against his name. The 
Great Magician who has called up a realm 
of Truth and Beauty, and given to the 
world creations of infinite excellence, has 
passed from amongst us. His wand has 
fallen from his hand, and the matchless 
genius that no longer works for man is 
inherited by no other who can carry on the 
noble work which has given to the name of 
Charles Dickens an imperishable lustre. 
The nation sorrows. It has lost one who, 
though standing alone in his rare and sig¬ 
nificant inspiration, was yet, by the expan¬ 
sion of his great nature, so entangled in the 
hearts of men that all feel a dearly-loved 
friend has been taken from their midst. 
As there is but one Shakespeare, one Milton, 
one Byron, one Burns, so there is but one 
Dickens. In his works, as in his life, there 
is a completedness — a unity. The tree 
has consummated its grandeur — all its 

[ 176] 



plate number xxxv 































































































foliage had come to it; not one more leaf 
was to be added — the tree in its richness 
and freshness of verdure, before it bore a 
single withered branch, was to fall. 

If the mind of an author whose hopes 
and ambitions are for the weal of his 
countrymen is looked upon as the property 
of his country, then perhaps we can find 
comfort in the event which has cast so deep 
a gloom over every part of the land. It is 
given to few men to retain in the “sere and 
yellow leaf” of the body a mental constitu¬ 
tion as vigorous and great as when its 
temple has few signs of decay. Though in 
its awful suddenness we mourn as we have 
mourned never before over the flight of a 
great spirit which goes back to the Em¬ 
pyrean whence it came, we should realize 
that a great man has done his work, and 
that what more he may have done could 
have little contributed to that monument 
of perfection and utility which is to us, as 
it was to him, a glory. His. brian may 
have grown less able and his heart become 
contracted and colder in the winter of age. 
Now working for his kind, striving with 
an intellect as strong, and yearning with a 
heart as bold as in his sanguine youth, he 

C177] 


goes away leaving an unblemished heritage. 
The treasures which he has created are 
sanctified by the knowledge that their crea¬ 
tor was always faithful to his first grand 
instincts, and that, never deviating from 
his mission as an Apostle of the People, he 
has left for posterity a benefaction as good 
and worthy as the world has any account of. 

Great as Charles Dickens was as author, 
the age which honored him must share in 
his glory. If his genius was unique, the 
spirit which fired him came from and was 
accepted by the people. If he has written 
for all time, he has written for his age. 
In this age there was not only the multi¬ 
form nature which his master pen depicted 
in all its beauties, eccentricities, and sad¬ 
ness, but the wide sense of sympathy which 
was enmeshed with his own. The recogni¬ 
tion of Charles Dickens was the recognition 
of human nature, and of the immutable 
grace belonging to men’s better selves. 
There were periods in English History when 
the song of this great prose-poet would have 
found no listeners. Emerson has said: 
“The poetry of the vulgar has yet to be 
written.” Dickens found that poetry in 
the hearts of the people, and has done 

[178] 


more, save Shakespeare, than any other 
author to show the whole world is kin. 
Thackeray portrayed but one class, and 
became celebrated as a discoverer of the 
ugly spots in society; Lord Lytton, superb 
in diction, delicate in sentiment, and sur¬ 
prising in constructive ability, has never 
humbled himself to become exalted; Car¬ 
lyle, though a great historian, is not suffi¬ 
ciently idiomatic in feeling to become a 
writer for all men; George Eliot, whose 
marvellous power and nearly supernatural 
insight into human nature have made her 
universally famous, perhaps lacks that ex¬ 
uberance of feeling and that sunlight of 
temperament so conspicuous in her late 
contemporary. Charles Dickens was great, 
because he was above reasoning. His was 
the logic of the heart, which persuaded 
mankind by a loving kindness, and which 
taught all manner of good in a sublime 
language — a worthy echo of that heard 
on the Mount more than eighteen hundred 
years ago. The greatest of all Masters of 
the human heart said: “Suffer little chil¬ 
dren to come unto Me.” From little Paul 
and Little Nell came a wisdom better than 
the Philosophy of the schools; telling us 

[ 179] 


that in the sweetness and freshness of child¬ 
hood were to be found a teaching enkindling 
Divine Affections, awakening us out of the 
darkness of sordid calculation to the light 
of Love and Goodness. The author of the 
Old Curiosity Shop , of A Christmas Carol , 
and Nicholas Nickleby , preached his Gospel 
of Charity as no other human author had 
ever preached before. We are grateful to 
his memory because of all this; because he 
let us see into his own heart, and because 
he showed us the springs of excellence in 
our own. If he ordered his own imagination 
to people worlds for us, this Chieftain of 
the Passions commanded our smiles and 
tears, our contempt, scorn, and pity. He 
made us love and hate in a breath; and if 
he revealed to us the “precious jewel” in 
poor humanity, he exhibited the squalor of 
golden people and the deformity of mere 
prosperity. To those having great needs, 
to the humble, and to those of little ac¬ 
count, he talked in words of unsurpassed 
tenderness: all mankind he has cheered 
with his guileless humour and beguiled by 
his exquisite pathos, finding out loveliness 
in noisome places, showing light in obscure 
haunts, and fair pictures in poor homes. 

C 180] 


His beneficent plans softened the air we 
breathed, warmed us into forgiving moods, 
and transmuted mists into sunlight. He 
has brought us into communion with beings 
who will never pass out of our lives. The 
Cherryble Brothers are always coming to 
us with messages of kindness. Mr. Dombey 
is reprobating the arrogance of wealth; 
Steer forth, in the pride and lust of birth 
and youth is, amidst the tempest, telling 
the story of Retribution. Mark Tapley, 
Sam Weller, and hosts of others are old 
companions who never tire us, and come to 
solace us when even the companionship of 
friendship wearies us. Who, having once 
heard the Music of dear Tom Pinch in his 
Temple rooms, would wish the grand old 
organ to cease the sounds of those deep 
tones which have thrown a melody into 
lives, and given us peace in time of noise 
and confusion. In The Chimes, too, is a 
harmony full of deep meaning, which should 
never pass out of hearing. 

The “Old Abbey” where lies the dust of 
England’s most illustrious sons, is honoured 
by becoming the Temple of his remains. 
Whether his grave be in some quiet church¬ 
yard or at Westminster must be of little 
[181] 


moment to those who knew him best. 
There is a fitness in the National Mauso¬ 
leum in which there is a “Poet’s Corner.” 
As nothing now can diminish his fame, 
nothing can cast a new glory upon his 
memory. His uncorrupted spirit passes on 
to a higher sphere; the offspring of that 
spirit remains with us, relating to us how 
there lived a great man who used his genius 
for the good of his fellow-men, and who, 
striving to advance the public good by un¬ 
selfish aims, left the world better than he 
found it, enriching it by his mighty imagina¬ 
tion, and ennobling it out of the grandeur 
of his sacred aspirations. 

We need ask no questions, we need make 
no inquiries about what the world is saying 
at this great loss. Little Paul asked, “What 
are the wild waves saying?” The answer 
has now come for Charles Dickens. — 

Through the many-coloured windows. 

Largely lifted in the Eastward, 

Throbbed the pulses in the morning 
Down the silence of the Transept. 

Coming through the distance, 

Lo! the tremble of the organ; 

In its first prophetic breathings, 

Breathing with so soft a language, 

C182 ] 


That the voice seemed born of stillness, 
Seemed incorporate with Silence. 

From the quiet of the cloisters, 
underneath the grey old arches. 

Shaken by the group of sunlight, 

Entered in a sad procession. 

Eloquent in mighty sorrow, 

That refused to be acquainted 
With the glare of splendid burial. 

Little knew the City’s great heart 
That a king was to be gathered, 
Gathered in the early morning, 

To a company of Monarchs, 

Who had lighted up the ages 
With the torches of their greatness; 
That a King was to be buried 
In the silence of the Transept. 

Broken only by the stifled 
sobbing of the friends who loved him, 
Rose the nobly uttered burden 
Of the grandly-purposed Service: 

While a bird — who through the open 
Casement of an upper window 
Entered in to sing a carol 
In the quiet of the choir, — 

Flew aside and hushed its cadence: — 
Perching on the hoary chaplet 
Of a pillar broadly shining 
In the glow of purple fire 
Scattered from the ancient windows 
By the full triumphant sunlight; — 
There the bird sat still and listened: — 


Looking down upon the Burial 
Of a King, who now was gathered 
To a company of Monarchs, 

In the silence of the Transept. 

From Will-o -the-Wisp (London), 25th June, 1870 


C184] 


CHARLES DICKENS’S LEGACY TO 
ENGLAND. IN MEMORY 


There swept a sigh of sorrow universal 
From melancholy Medway’s mournful strand, 
Upon the Nightwind’s desolate dispersal, 

To float along the land. 

The closing eve had had no shade of sorrow; 

In silver haze we saw the planets swim; 

But when the sun arose upon the morrow, 

We felt the dawn was dim. 

With grief-drown’d eyes we read — how briefly 
stated! — 

That he was gone — the man of pure renown: 

As if some bark, with our best treasures freighted, 
Had in the dark gone down! 

’Twas but a whisper, yet more widely sounding 
Than the hoarse guns that for warriors roar, 

A thrill electric circled all surrounding, 

And spread from shore to shore. 

And that sad circle stretching, still unbroken. 
Around the world to utmost regions sped; 

And tears were shed, where’er our tongue is 
spoken, 

To know Charles Dickens — dead. 

[ 185] 


Within the Abbey let him take his slumber. 
Make room, oh great ones of the Long Ago; 

In your grand roll Charles Dickens thus to 
number, 

Ye smile, blest shades, we know! 

Not his the coronet, or ermine legal. 

No herald-blazoned office in the state! 

Without a title, to the Council Regal 
But summoned when too late. 

Here lay him down; the dust where he reposes 
Is glorious dust of the illustrious dead; 

And where he lies shall blossom God’s rare roses 
When sounds the summons dread! 

Calm be his sleep—despite warm tears above him, 
Who loved the weak, and never feared the strong. 
Whose page was pure, who made all good hearts 
love him, 

Who felt the others’ wrong. 

Yet though he sleeps lamented of a nation, 
The good he did for us shall ne’er decay; 

They live — the beings of his fine creation — 

To make us glad for aye! 

From Fun (London), 25th June, 1870 


[186] 



PLATE NUMBER XXXVI 














































































CHARLES DICKENS 

What can we say of Charles Dickens that 
has not been said before, — written by abler 
pens than ours, felt by tenderer hearts than 
ours? 

We are mere satirists. Our duty is but to 
tear and rend — to show the hateful face 
of hypocrisy to the world, to rob Folly of 
the sound of the bells. What right have we 
to stand near the great man’s grave, to add 
one wreath of cypress to the immortelles 
strewn o’er the dead’s last resting place? 

But little; our mission is with the living, 
our task a lifelong fight. We have no time 
for grief, sighs or tears; and yet we cannot 
let the earth rest on Dickens’s grave without 
writing a few humble words in his honour, 
— writing them from the heart with falter¬ 
ing pen and trembling hand; writing them 
in bitter sorrow unbounded, sorrow without 
end. 

In years to come our words may appear 
extravagant; but now while the loss of our 
great good novelist is upon us one grief is 
shared by a people, a race, a world. 

Charles Dickens was not only a romancer, 
he was a mighty teacher, as powerful as the 

[187] 


ablest preacher of modern times. His mis¬ 
sion was one of mercy. He did not come 
among us to war with his enemies, to join 
petty cliques, to support petty coteries. 
No, his life was spent (ah! how soon!) in 
showing us that real good might be mingled 
with apparent bad, how the wealthy man 
might be a Christian, how the poor man 
need not always be a brute. He drew 
nearer to one another class to class; in a 
word, he taught one half of the world, how 
the other half lived. This he did without 
ostentation, without a thought of self. He 
was proud of his profession, not of his 
brain; thanked his God for his power to 
do good, not for his means of gaining fame. 

He has gone away for ever from among 
us, but he has left his books that will bear 
his name down to generations yet to come. 
He and his fellow-maker, Thackeray, repre¬ 
sent worthily the literature of the century. 
Macaulay may have been a great historian, 
but his name will not live as long as 
“ Charles Dickens.” Tennyson may be a 
great poet, but he will be forgotten before 
“Thackeray” becomes a meaningless word. 
Who have we to succeed these two great 
men? Wilkie Collins? Absurd! Charles 
[188] 



PLATE NUMBER XXXVII 





























Reade? Ridiculous! The first is a writer 
who would delight the heart of the manager 
of the Ambigue — the second turns “blue 
book” into romance, poor specimens of 
human nature into grotesque burlesque. 
Anthony Trollope can write small beer, and 
Miss Braddon of the beauties of the lime¬ 
light and the delight of London Journal 
society! Who else have we? No one — 
absolutely no one! It is true — No one! 

As we write, the vision of his works passes 
before us, and we see the creations of his 
brain in all their unparalleled excellence. 
Comedy and tragedy, smiles and tears, 
mirth and pathos. 

First there is Pickwick — the great, the 
good Pickwick. Pickwick who in spite of 
his smalls and his spectacles and absurd 
mishaps is a gentleman, a gentleman every 
inch of him. Near him is Sam Weller, first 
of humorists, most gentle of satirists, a man 
whose fund of anecdote would have made 
the fortune of a rival Percy, whose readiness 
in the hour of danger would have brought a 
reputation for the stupidest of generals and 
most incapable of commanders-in-chief; and 
there too is Jingle, adventurer and liar, and 
poor debtor. Ah, there is seen the master 
[i8 9 ] 


hand of Dickens! Who can hate Jingle 
after that touching scene in White Cross 
Street? That scene which brings out the 
struggling good from the mass of bad. 
There too is Winkle, born only to illustrate 
Seymour’s pencil; and Snodgrass, and the 
rival editors, and a score of others. The 
vision fades and another picture takes its 
place. 

Now we have David Copperfield, gentlest 
and kindest of lads, condemning and yet 
admiring Steerforth, as that headstrong 
youth denounces the poor usher. Then 
dear childlike Dora appears with her tiny 
dog, and the two fade away together, and 
Rosa Dartle — revengeful Rosa Dartle — 
pours her fierce, pitiless invective upon little 
Em’Iy’s head, and Peggotty wanders once 
again through the world to find his brother’s 
child — the child so cruelly lost to him, 
and Micawber, most hopeful of mortals, 
“turns up” in Australia, prosperous, happy 
and conversational; and the vision is 
crowded with characters — all good, all 
true, and then it fades away and gives 
place to another. 

Martin Chuzzlewit — old Martin and 
young Martin, both proud, both firm, both 
c 190] 


obstinate; and here too is Mark Tapley, 
who can be jolly under the dismalest of 
circumstances, and Pecksniff the hypocrite, 
and Jonas, assassin, and Gamp, the im¬ 
mortal Gamp, snuffy, grinning Gamp — 
Gamp who is rather more than a man, and 
just a trifle less than a woman; and Mercy, 
poor Mercy, and Cherry the shrew. See 
how they pass away; and here is Dombey 
— cold, stern Dombey, weeping over the 
coffin of his little son; and Florence — 
sweet, patient Florence stands beside him, 
whispering words of consolation into his 
grief-dumb ears; and see, there is Captain 
Cuttle, and the friendly Toots, and the 
serpent Carker, and Edith, proud and 
scornful. More yet. — 

Nicholas Nickleby at Squeers’. See how 
wretched the boys are, in spite of the smiles 
of Miss Fanny, and the brimstone and 
treacle of the master’s wife; and there is 
John, the general Yorkshire man, and 
Crummies, with his “real pump and splen¬ 
did tubs,” and poor Smike; and see Mrs. 
Nickleby, full of anecdotes — so full that 
they mix together in a sad jumble, remind¬ 
ing one of a badly dressed salad; and 
there too is Ralph Nickleby — stern Ralph 

C191 ] 


Nickleby, money lender and brute; and 
Kate, sweet Kate, and Lord Verisopht, and 
Sir Mulberry Hawk, and again the vision 
fades. 

Little Dorrit is here now, with her pa¬ 
tient, loving face, and see the circumlocu¬ 
tion office is again open to the public, and 
shall attempt the solution of that most 
difficult problem of how not to do it; and 
the shadow, — the blighting shadow of the 
Marshalsea falls across the horizon and 
fades away. 

But why should we write further? Is 
not every character we have mentioned 
known and admired by the whole nation? 
Do not the creations of Dickens belong to 
us, — live among us? 

And he has gone! This great Magician 
of the pen has gone. Writing to the last — 
good, noble words, fighting to the last 
against Evil and Sham. He has gone for¬ 
ever, leaving us to mourn for him; leaving 
us to sigh as we discover in the Shadow 
Death, The Mystery of Edwin Drood. 

From The Tomahawk (London), 25th June, 1870 


C192] 


CHARLES DICKENS 

The great story-teller is the personal 
friend of the world, and when he dies a 
shadow falls upon every home in which his 
works were familiar and his name tenderly 
cherished. When the news came that 
Dickens was dead, it was felt that the one 
man who was more beloved than any of 
his contemporaries by the English speaking 
race of today, was gone. While he yet lay 
in his own house unburied, the thoughts of 
the whole civilized world turned solemnly 
to the silent chamber and gratefully re¬ 
called his immense service to mankind. 
What an amazing fame! What a feeling to 
inspire! When Walter Scott drew near his 
end, he said to his son-in-law, Lockhart, 
as if it were the chief lesson of his accumu¬ 
lated experience — “Be a good man, my 
dear.” Nothing else seemed important 
then. Charity, patience, love — these he 
saw in the dawn of heavenly light to be the 
only true possessions — the sole real suc¬ 
cess. And who of all men that ever lived 
has done more to make men good than 
Charles Dickens; and what praise so pure 

[ 193] 


as that simple truth could be spoken by his 
open grave? 

Within the last few days the simple story 
of his life has been read by millions of men 
and women. Yet nothing could be said of 
his genius and works that they had not all 
felt; and it was because they had all felt it 
that his name was so dear. There was 
nothing obscure or remote in his genius. 
Like Burns, he touched the universal heart 
by appealing to the universal experience. 
When Pickwick was first published it 
seemed for a little while to supplant all 
other literature. The ostler in the stall and 
the judge upon the bench, like truant 
school-boys, left their tasks to enjoy it. Its 
phrases and quaint terms became the cur¬ 
rent coin of general conversation; its char¬ 
acters were at once and forever typical. Its 
pathos and humor were equally profuse and 
natural. Like Pamela, Joseph Andrews, 
and Waverly, Pickwick marked a new era 
in English literature. The great genial 
genius took the world upon his knee, and it 
listened delightedly to the rollicking tale. 

The supremacy which Dickens achieved 
at the very first he never lost. He found 
Bulwer, James, and Disraeli in possession 

C194] 



PLATE NUMBER XXXVIII 








of the field. During the thirty-three years 
of his career Thackeray, Miss Bronte, 
George Eliot, Kingsley, Charles Reade, 
Mrs. Gaskell, Wilkie Collins, Anthony 
Trollope, and their contemporaries ap¬ 
peared. Of these only one, Thackeray, 
was ever mentioned as contesting the palm 
with Dickens. But Thackeray himself did 
not contest it. And whatever may be 
thought of their comparative literary art, 
whatever superior special pleasure culti¬ 
vated readers may find in Thackeray, that 
great master was always first and most 
sincere in recognizing with admiration the 
wonderful opulence of Dickens’s genius, 
and the profound humanity of his influence. 

Thackeray, indeed, sometimes thought 
that Dickens was not quite generous toward 
him. — 

“It took Mr. Dickens a great while to 
discover that I had written a book,” said 
Thackeray once, with a smile. But it was 
a sensitiveness which he felt to be not quite 
just, and it disappeared long before his own 
death. They were both humorists, but the 
difference between them was too absolute 
to breed misunderstanding. Thackeray 
was essentially of a melancholy and artistic 

[ 195] 


temperament, — a man of extraordinary 
insight; and his occasional impatience with 
the frolic extravagance of Dickens is easily 
understood. But the noble and generous 
words in which these two great contem¬ 
poraries spoke of each other are universally 
familiar. And there is one little anecdote, 
not so well known, which can never be so 
tenderly recalled as at this moment. When 
Thackeray was buried, his friends — among 
them the most noted of English authors — 
carried him to Kendal Green. There had 
been some estrangement between Dickens 
and Mark Lemon, and as the coffin was 
lowered into its place, Dickens stood on 
one side of the grave and Lemon on the 
other. As they raised their heads their eyes 
met, and instinctively putting out their 
hands, they clasped them in forgiveness, 
and their quarrel was buried in the grave 
of Thackeray. 

The affluence of Dickens’s genius was 
Shakespearean. He has enriched literature 
and general experience with more familiar 
characters, more current felicities of ex¬ 
pression than any other author, except the 
one greatest of all. Most great poets and 
novelists are known by a few creations; 
[ 196 ] 


but those of Dickens are a host, and his 
power was never more varied and admirable 
than in the story of Edwin Drood, which is 
now publishing. Indeed, the tale so brims 
and sparkles with all his characteristic fe¬ 
licity that it seems as if he had resolved to 
prove that his greater art had not been 
gained by the least sacrifice of freshness and 
vigor. Even at the very moment that the 
cunning hand was suddenly stilled forever, 
how many thousands of readers in England 
and America, as they finished the beautiful 
tenth chapter of Edwin Drood, were declar¬ 
ing that Dickens was never so delightful as 
in his latest work! 

And so our friend, the friend of all honest 
men and women stumbling and struggling 
in the great battle, suddenly ceases from 
among us! How much happier for him and 
for all of us than the sad decline of the 
good Sir Walter, whose powers were slowly 
extinguished, star by star, before the eyes 
of all men, who therefore could not hear of 
the end but with a tear of relief. Now we 
can perceive how prophetic was the feeling 
of sadness with which we watched Dickens 
withdrawing from the platform at his last 
reading in Steinway Hall. All the evening, 

C197] 


as he said, the shadow of one word had im¬ 
pended over us. He has not faltered for a 
moment; but, strangely, even Pickwick 
did not seem gay. The feeling of deep and 
inexpressible affection for the man who had 
so cheered the weary and fainting hearts of 
thousands, and who evidently ill, was now 
passing from our sight forever, overpowered 
all other emotion. The vast audience stood 
cheering and tearful as, gravely bowing, 
and refusing all assistance, as if in that 
final moment he wished to confront us 
alone, the master lingered and lingered, and 
slowly retired. In that moment, after the 
long misunderstanding of years between 
him and this country, and after his wholly 
manly and generous speech at the Press 
dinner, our hearts clasped his, as he and 
Mark Lemon grasped hands over the grave 
of Thackeray, and henceforward and for all 
the future there was to be nothing in 
American hearts but boundless love and 
gratitude for Charles Dickens. 

From Harper’s Weekly , 25th June, 1870 


PLATE NUMBER XXXIX 

DICKENS ET SES (EUVRES 

Dessin et composition de 
M. Edmond Morin 

From Le Monde Illustre (London), 
25th June, 1870 


[199] 

































































CHARLES DICKENS 

Translated from the French of 
Leo De Bernard 

While Charles Dickens died a few days 
ago as the result of a paralytic stroke, his 
spirit will enliven future generations through 
his great literary talents. Death, the most 
invincible of forces, can annihilate the 
physical body, but its sovereignty recoils 
powerless before the spirit. The spirit is 
all that remains of man, and it is what 
constitutes the fortunes of mankind. 

Charles Dickens was one of those who 
have contributed much to that intellectual 
wealth, which in the possession of posterity, 
becomes a great lever of civilization. While 
criticizing the egotism and hypocrisy of his 
time, he has been helpful to all the wretched¬ 
ness engendered by the false standards of 
English society. He has always pleaded the 
cause of the unfortunate. 

Like all sympathetic natures, he greatly 
pitied those who were suffering, and this 
great pity has contributed largely to his 
literary success in the two continents. 

Not that he had the false sentimentalism 
common to such writers as Byron, Goethe 
[201 ] 


and Lamartine; on the contrary his novels, 
which like himself are full of tenderness as 
well as great indignation, have reclaimed 
the rights of the weak, and the possession 
of true equality, notwithstanding the in¬ 
difference and scorn of hypocrisy and 
selfishness. 

He studied the wretched who throng and 
live in the mire of the world. His sensitive 
and impressionable talents brought him into 
close sympathy with them, and it is this 
sympathy that opens the hearts of his 
readers. 

More than any other writer, this great 
novelist sympathised with those who suf¬ 
fer and those who weep, and the wretched 
of London will in the future never pass 
Westminster Abbey without mentally say¬ 
ing, “There lies our friend.” 

It is in this Pantheon of England where 
his oaken casket has been laid, and which 
bears only these words, — “CHARLES 
DICKENS, Born February 7th, 1812, died 
June 9th, 1870.” 

It is in the Poets’ Corner, near the bust 
of Shakespeare, and the tombs of Sheridan, 
Macauley, Addison, Johnson, Garrick, Han¬ 
del, Goldsmith, and his friend Thackeray, 
[ 202 ] 


that Dickens the great one of the literary 
world sleeps his last sleep. 

His funeral ceremony was simple, for he 
hated pomp and honours, and his family, 
knowing of this antipathy, asked that the 
funeral ceremony should be plain and simple 
and without show. The public was not in¬ 
formed of the place or time, and only the 
relatives accompanied the mournful cortege. 

The sons and daughters and the sister of 
Dickens were, however, not the only ones 
to see him placed in the tomb. 

Under the vaults of Westminster the 
great characters which he created and which 
made the glory of the novelist, were given 
a rendezvous. Death, as fantastic as our 
artist E. Morin, called them forth that day. 
In the twilight of the chapel, one saw 
Nicholas Nickleby, Little Dorrit, Barnaby 
Rudge, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, 
Dombey, Mr. Pickwick, poor little Sleary, 
of Hard Times, Pecksniff, Gamp and Harris, 
three characters of American citizens, which 
Dickens took from life and copied in Martin 
Chuzzlewit . From time to time, a plaintive 
and mournful note was mingled with the 
chords of the organ. It was the sad canticle 
of the Cricket on the Hearth, the cricket 
[203] 


which was the first to sing the glory of the 
English novelist in France. 

Such was the ideal funeral of Charles 
Dickens. The poetical creator was going 
from life, leaving alive the immortal crea¬ 
tions of his genius. But that life was well 
filled. While in the office of the lawyer, 
where his father placed him, in order that 
he might learn the profession of a man of 
law, literature was revealed by little 
sketches of manners, signed “Boz,” which 
had an immense success in London. His 
dramatic power, his force and the pictur¬ 
esqueness of his faculties of observation, 
were brought out more and more in his 
successful and fruitful productions. Death 
has struck him in the height of his talent. 
It has brutally broken the pen, which leaves 
unfinished his last book, The Mystery oj 
Edwin Drood. 

Charles Dickens has dug deep into social 
misery. He has described vice at its worst, 
but his thoughts have always remained 
good and pure. His persistent idea has 
been to console those who suffer, by calling 
the attention and the pity of the fortunate 
of the world upon them, impressing upon 
the former and upon the latter, what is too 
[204] 


often forgotten, both in poverty and in 
prosperity, — duty. 

From Le Monde Illustre (Paris), 25th June, 1870 


[205] 


PLATE NUMBER -XL 

CHARLES DICKENS 

Surrounded by characters from 

David Copperfield 

From an oil painting by W. Gray 
(1870) 


[206] 






























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PLATE NUMBER XLII 
CHARLES DICKENS 
Surrounded by characters from his works 

From an oil painting by W. Gray 
(1870) 


[209] 



imr ~m~~i ti— i i i iiiWH'Miii i ini iiiimnin w i—m 































PLATE NUMBER XLIII 

CHARLES DICKENS AND HIS 
CHARACTERS 

From the oil painting by W. Reynolds 
formerly in the possession 
of Charles Dickens 
(Circa 1870) 


[211 ] 





* 





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■ 

































“SEM’S” CARICATURE OF DICKENS 
(1870) 

One of the most interesting caricatures 
of Dickens is that by “Sem.” The only 
reference to it known to me is that made by 
Percy FitzGerald in his Recollections of a 
Literary Man, published in 1882. Therein 
he tells us that Dickens “always said that 
what he thought was the best likeness of 
himself was one of those gigantic heads on 
tiny legs, a form once in high favour, the 
original by ‘Sem,’ which I came across in a 
dealer’s shop.” 

There is no doubt that the picture Mr. 
FitzGerald had in view was the one repro¬ 
duced here; but I believe, however, that 
the one Dickens referred to was the carte- 
de-visite photograph entitled “ From whom 
we have Great Expectations” (See Plate 
No. X). 

The original painting of Sem’s caricature 
is now in my possession. I came across it in 
1918, and reproduced it in The Dickensian 
for July 1919. I was unable to discover if it 
had been reproduced in any periodical be¬ 
fore, nor was I able to identify the nom de 
plume “Sem.” On the painting, written in 

[213] 


pencil, are the words, “Sem’s Panthenon — 
Literature” which suggests that Sem evi¬ 
dently executed a series of portraits of 
celebrities for some purpose. 

Its publication in The Dickensian created 
a good deal of interest, and much curiosity 
as to whom “Sem” might stand for. There 
was a French artist, Georges Marie Goursat, 
born in 1863, who signed himself “Sem,” 
but I have not been able to trace if he was 
the artist who painted the picture. 

B. W. M. 


[214] 







PLATE NUMBER XLIV 





































“SPY’S” CARICATURES OF DICKENS 
(“Sketches from memory” — circa 1870) 

F. G. Kitton in the supplement to his 
Charles Dickens by Pen and Pencil said: — 

“Mr. Leslie Ward (perhaps better known 
as ‘Spy/ of Vanity Fair ) is responsible for 
a humorous portrait of Dickens. As the 
son of Mr. E. M. Ward, R. A., he had a 
personal acquaintance with the novelist, 
having, when but a lad, been introduced to 
Dickens by his mother. The pronounced 
style of Dickens’s dress seemed to have 
impressed the young caricaturist so much 
that he felt impelled to give vent to his 
sense of humour by executing some memory 
sketches of the great writer. These are 
dated ‘February 1870,’ and the largest 
of the series represents Dickens (in three- 
quarter length, front view) as he appeared 
in walking dress, with an overcoat having 
a quilted silk collar and cuffs — so fashion¬ 
able at that time — check trousers, and hat 
tilted over the right ear, giving an oppor¬ 
tunity for a free display of a tuft of hair, 
then perfectly blanched. The drawing, 
which is coloured, and about the size of the 
[215] 


Vanity Fair cartoon, suggests the thought 
that it was intended for publication in that 
journal, but as a matter of fact it was pro¬ 
duced three years before his introduction 
to the proprietor of that journal; by the 
artist’s permission it is given here for the 
first time. Allowing for exaggeration, the 
drawing portrays Dickens as he appeared 
a few months before his death, and is as 
successful an effort as any of the free handed 
caricatures which he has executed for Vanity 
Fair of other celebrities. The remaining 
sketches to which I have alluded [Plates 
XLVI and XLVII] are in pen and ink — 
small jottings on note-paper slightly tinted; 
they are side and back views of the novelist, 
in walking dress.” 

The three pictures are here reproduced. 


[216] 



PLATE NUMBER XLV 











PLATE NUMBER XLVI 










PLATE NUMBER XLVII 
















PLATE NUMBER XLVIII 

SCENES AND CHARACTERS FROM 
DICKENS 
(Circa 1872) 


[217] 






























PLATE NUMBER XLIX 

DICKENS RECEIVING HIS 
CHARACTERS 

From a painting by W. H. Beard 
(1874) 


[219] 

















































PLATE NUMBER L 

A SOUVENIR OF DICKENS 
(Circa 1875) 

From an unfinished painting by R. W. Buss 


[221 ] 

































PLATE NUMBER LI 

“ THE TWO CHARLIES” —DICKENS 
AND FECHTER 

A recollection Drawn by Alfred Bryan 
From Entr’acte, 23d August, 1879 


[223] 
































































<" 

















PLATE NUMBER LI I 

THACKERAY AND DICKENS 
(Circa 1880) 

This caricature by Alfred Bryan is re¬ 
produced by permission of Mr. A. Edward 
Newton, the present owner of the colored 
original. 

It formed the frontispiece of his book, 
The Amenities of Book-Collecting and Kin¬ 
dred Affections , published in 1920. 

Many of Alfred Bryan’s caricatures ap¬ 
peared in the London paper Entr'acte during 
the seventies, eighties and nineties (see 
Plate LI — Dickens and Fechter), but this 
was not among them. 

B. W. M. 


[225] 












































THE DICKENS CARNIVAL IN 
BOSTON 

Whilst Momus presided over the Mardi 
Gras revels in New Orleans, and the closing 
gaieties in other cities took the form of 
balls, receptions and banquets, Boston in¬ 
dulged in the semi-intellectual dissipation 
of a “Dickens” Carnival. The time was 
Shrove Tuesday Night, and the place was 
Mechanics’ Hall. The unique entertain¬ 
ment attracted unusual attention, not only 
on account of the extensive scale upon which 
it was organized, but also from the fact that 
it owed its origin and organization to the 
Women’s Educational and Industrial Union 
of Boston. 

The Union has always been opposed to 
asking charity for its benevolent objects, 
and the Carnival was a happy thought to 
aid the treasury. Its success may be judged 
from the fact that over 7,000 tickets were 
sold. The hall was crowded by a brilliant 
assemblage which included not a few of the 
literary and artistic celebrities of the New 
England Athens. 

On one side of the hall, in front of the 
stage, was a miniature representation of 
[227] 


Dickens’s garden at Gad’s Hill; on the 
other, a veritable Gypsy’s Camp, the little 
horse-shoe tent hidden away back among 
the evergreen trees and mossy banks, while 
near to the border was a log fire with the 
old iron kettle hanging from the tripod 
above. The stage itself was given up to the 
tableaux and procession. The first picture 
upon which the curtain rose was the cathe¬ 
dral scene from David Copper field , “Mar¬ 
riage Bells, One, Two, Three.” This was 
followed by scenes from Bleak House, Pick¬ 
wick, Our Mutual Friend, and Old Curiosity- 
Shop, while the singing of “The Ivy Green” 
and the dancing of the minuet afforded 
agreeable interludes. 

Then came the most interesting and 
poetically suggestive picture of the evening 
— which our artist has reproduced. It 
represented Charles Dickens himself seated 
thoughtfully at a table while before him 
passed a procession of the characters in 
Barnaby Rudge ,— Jo and Dolly Varden, 
Emily, Lord George Gordon, the hangman, 
the blindman, the rioters, Mr. and Mrs. 
Varden, Simon Tappertit and Miggs and 
Dennis filed slowly past. Finally, the un¬ 
couth Barnaby Rudge, with Grip, the raven, 
[228] 



PLATE NUMBER LIII 


































; ' ,> 


































































































• •> 







































on his back, came silently in and made his 
obeisance to Dickens. 

A Tale of Two Cities furnished the final 
scene, during which the “Marseillaise” was 
sung by a group surrounding the Goddess 
of Liberty. Then the entire company of 
Dickens’s characters formed in line and 
marched across the stage and down the 
center aisle. 

From Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper , New 
York, 28th February, 1885 


C229] 


PLATE NUMBER LIV 

A CHRISTMAS CELEBRITY — 
CHARLES DICKENS 

Drawn by Alfred Bryan 

From Moonshine (London), 

22 nd December, 1888 


[230] 



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fat. BWK 


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A CHRISTMAS OELLURITY—OHARLK8 DlCKKNS. 
















PLATE NUMBER LV 

DICKENS SURROUNDED BY HIS 
CHARACTERS 

Drawn by J. R. Brown 

Especially for Dickens by Pen 
and Pencil — 1889-90 


[231 ] 








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PLATE NUMBER LVI 
CHARLES DICKENS STREET 

In 1890, when changes were made in the 
names of some of London’s main streets, a 
writer in The Daily Graphic , commenting 
upon those chosen, said: “Our latest chris¬ 
tenings of important thoroughfares seem to 
be singularly infelicitous, seeing how many 
notable names there were to choose from. 

“Why not Charles Dickens Street? It 
is singular, seeing that the author of Pick¬ 
wick was so intimately associated with 
London and its streets, that none of them 
should bear his name.” 

Inspired by this idea, another paper, 
Scraps , — an illustrated weekly, — pub¬ 
lished the picture reproduced here, with the 
following editorial note: — 

“Our artist considers that the idea is 
excellent. By the exercise of a little in¬ 
genuity, Charles Dickens Street might be 
one of the features of the town.” 

B. W. M. 


[233 ] 











I 



































































































































A 








PLATE NUMBER LVII 
CHARLES DICKENS 

This picture was especially drawn by 
Harry Furniss for “The Gadshill” Edition 
of The Uncommercial Traveller , published 
in November 1898, and was first reproduced 
in that volume in photogravure. 

The scenes surrounding the portrait of 
Dickens all represent incidents in the vol¬ 
ume in which the picture appeared. 

B. W. M. 


[235 ] 




















PLATE NUMBER LVIII 


DICKENS ENJOYS A FRIENDLY 
PIPE WITH SOME OF HIS 
CREATIONS 

In 1898 Messrs. Cope & Co., the British 
tobacconists, issued a series of fifty pictures 
of characters from Dickens’s books, which 
were presented with packets of their ciga¬ 
rettes. 

These pictures were also printed in colors 
in a pamphlet, entitled “The Charles 
Dickens Album,” being No. 1 of Cope’s 
“Smoke-Room Albums.” The picture by 
G. P. which is reproduced here, was in 
black and white and formed the frontis¬ 
piece to the Album. 

B. W. M. 


[237] 





■'-A 


(*>.*«■ 

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PLATE NUMBER LIX 

DICKENSONIAN PHANTAS¬ 
MAGORIA 

By J. M. Stamforth 

Supplement to Household Words 
(London), 26th May, 1901 


[239] 






t 













































PLATE NUMBER LX 
A DICKENS REVERIE 

On the 7th of February 1903, Dickens’s 
birthday was celebrated at Bath by the un¬ 
veiling of the two tablets on respective 
houses in that city — one to the memory 
of Dickens and the other to the memory of 
Landor. 

The former ceremony was performed by 
Percy FitzGerald, the first President of the 
Dickens Fellowship, who was accompanied 
to Bath by members of the newly formed 
society. 

In the evening a public banquet was held 
in the Assembly Rooms when each guest 
was presented with a menu illustrated with 
Pickwickian and other pictures, on the 
cover of which was the very excellent por¬ 
trait of the novelist surrounded by scenes 
from The Pickwick Papers , associated with 
Bath and Bristol, which is reproduced here. 
It was headed: — 

BATH 

Welcome to Ba-ath, Sir. Most welcome to 
Ba-ath. 

[B. W. M.] 


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